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M-ONA MACLEAN 


medical student 


BY 

GRAHAM TRAVERS 

/f&l / /y p&tll 

w 



NEW YORK 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
1892 


Copyright, 1892 , 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


Erect” '■'■"tped a d Printed 
AT THE i-;’PLETON i.*RESS, U. S. A 











CONTENTS. 


iPTEH PAGE 

f l. — I n the garden 1 

II. — The lists 10 

III. — “Adolescent insanity” 12 

IV. — Sir Douglas 17 

V. — “An agate knife-edge” 27 

VI. — The N,erodal 31 

VII. — A son of Anak 39 

VIII. — Bons camarades 48 

IX. — Doris 64 

X. — Borrowness 76 

XI. — The shop 83 

XII. — Castle Maclean 91 

XIII. — The chapel 100 

XIV. — Reaction 105 

XV. — The botanists Ill 

XVI. — “John Hogg’s machine” 116 

XVII. — Auntie Bell 122 

XVIII. — Dr. Dudley 125 

XIX. — “Leaves of grass” 131 

XX. — St. Rules 143 

XXI. — The flying Scotchman 148 

XXII. — Dr. Alice Bateson 159 

XXIII. — A Rencontre 164 

XXIV. — A clinical report 174 

XXV. — A VOICE IN THE FOG 179 

XXVI. — A CHAT BY THE FIRE 185 

XXVII. — A NEOPHYTE 190 

XXVIII. — The colonel’s yarn 200 

XXIX. — “Yonder shining light” 210 

XXX. — Mr. Stuart’s troubles 216 


( 3 ) 


I 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXXI.— Stradiyarius 

• 




PAGE 

. 2215 

XXXII. — Chums 






XXXIII. — Carbolic ! . 

• 




. 234 

XXXIV. — Palm-trees and pines 

• 




. 239 

XXXV. — Weeping and laughter . 

• 




. 248 

XXXVI. — Northern mists . 

• 




. 256\ 

XXXVII. — The alg^ea and fungi 

• 




. 261 

XXXVIII. — The bazaar 

• 




. 268 > 

XXXIX. — The ball .... 

• 




. 277 

XL. — A LOCUM TENENS . 

• 




. 286 

XLI. — A singed butterfly . 

• 




. 293 

XLII. — Questionings 

• 




. 299 1 

XLIII. — “ Mither ! ” . 





. 303 

XL1V. — A CRIMSON STREAK 

• 



y 

. 308 

XLV. — An unbeliever . 

• 




. 311 

XLVI. — Farewell to Borrowness 

• 




. 318 

XLVII. — The dissecting-room . 

• 




. 327 

XLVIII. — Confidences 

• 




. 339 

XLIX. — The Intermediate 

• 




. 344 

L. — Success or failure ? . 

• 




. 349 
. 359 

LI. — Another chat by the fire 

• 




LII. — Old friends 

• 




. 366 

LIII. — Waiting .... 

« 




. 373 

LIV. — Presentation day 

• 




. 378 

LV. — One of her “very best friends” 




. 382 

LVI. — A visitor from Borrowness 

• 




. 387 

LVII. — A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY 


. 392 

LVIII. — At the reception 

• 




. 401 

LIX. — A RAILWAY JOURNEY . 

• 




. 407 

LX. — A DAY OF SUNSHINE 

• 




. 411 

LXI. — Two GREAT RESPONSIBILITIES 

• 




. 414 

LXII. — At home .... 

• 




. 419 

LXI1I. — “ GLAUBST DU AN GOTT ? ” . 

• 




. 423 

LXIV. — A case for Mona 

0 




. 425 



MONA MACLEAN 


MEDICAL STUDENT. 


CHAPTER L 

IH THE GARDEN". 

“ I wish I were dead ! ” 

“ H’m. You look like it.” 

There was no reply for a second or two. The first 
speaker was carefully extricating herself from the ham- 
mock in which she had been idly swinging under the shade 
of a smoke-begrimed lime-tree. 

“ No,” she said at last, shaking out the folds of her 
dainty blue gown, “ I flatter myself that I do not look 
like it. I have often told you, my dear Mona, that from 
the point of view of success in practice, the art of dress- 
ing one’s hair is at least as important as the art of dissect- 
ing.” 

She gave an adjusting touch to her dark-red curls and 
drew herself to her full height, as though she were defy- 
ing the severest critic to say that she did not live up to 
hei principles. Presently her whole bearing collapsed, so 
to speak, into abject despair, half real, half assumed. 
“ But I do wish I were dead, all the same,” she said. 

“ Well, I don’t see why you should make me wish it 
too. Why don’t you go on with your book ? ” 

“ Go on with it ! I like that ! I never began. I 
have not turned a page for the last half-hour. That’s all 
the credit I get for my self-repression ! What time is it?” 

“ A quarter past twelve.” 

“Is that all? And the lists won’t be up till two. 
When shall we start?” 


( 5 ) 


6 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ About three, if we are wise — when the crush is 
over.” 

“Thank you! I mean to be there when the clock 
strikes two. There won’t be any crush. It’s not like the 
Matric ; and besides, every one has gone down. I am 
sure I wish I had ! A telegram ‘ strikes home,’ but the 
slow torture of wading through those lists — ! ” 

She broke off abruptly, and Mona returned to her 
book, but before she had read half-a-dozen lines a parasol 
was inserted between her eyes and the page. 

“ It will be a treat, won’t it ? — wiring to the other 
students that everybody has passed but me ! ” 

“ Lucy, you are intolerable. Have you finished pack- 
ing?” 

“ Practically.” 

“Do you mean to travel half the night in that gown ? ” 

“ Not being a millionaire like you, I do not. You lit- 
tle know the havoc this frock has to work yet. But I pre- 
sume you would not have me walk down to Burlington 
House in my old serge ? ” 

“ Why not ? You say everybody is out of town.” 

“ Precisely. Therefore we, the exceptions, will be all 
the more en evidence. I don’t mean to be taken for an 
‘ advanced woman.’ Some of the Barts, men will be there! 
and — ” 

But Mona was not listening. She had risen from the 
cushions on which she had been lounging, and was pacing 
up and down the grass. 

“ You know, Mona, you may say what you please, but 
you are rather white about the gills yourself, and you have 
no cause to be.” 

Mona stopped and shot a level glance at her compan- 
ion. 

“ Why not ? ” she said. “ Because I have been ploughed 
once already, and so should be used to skinning like the 
eels?” 

“ Nonsense ! How you contrived to fail once neither I 
nor any one else can pretend to explain, but certain it is 
that, with the best of will, you won’t achieve the feat a 
second time. You will be in the Honours list, of course.” 

Mona shrugged her shoulders. “ Possibly,” she said 
quietly, “ if I pass. But the question is, shall I pass ? 


IN THE GARDEN. 


7 


“ ‘ Oh the little more, and how much it is ! 

And the little less, and what worlds away !’ ” 

They were walking up and down together now. 

“ And even if you don’t — it will be a disgrace to the ex- 
aminers, of course, and a frightful fag, but beyond that I 
don’t see that it matters. There is no one to care.” 

Mona’s cheek flushed. She raised her eyebrows, and 
turned her head very slowly towards her companion, with a 
glance of inquiry. 

“ I mean,” Lucy said, hastily, “ you are — that is to say, 
you are not a country clergyman’s daughter like me. If I 
fail, it will be the talk of the parish. The grocer will con- 
dole with me over the counter, the postman will carry the 
news on his rounds, and the farmers will hear all about it 
when they come into market next Wednesday. It will be 
awfully hard on the Pater ; he — ” 

“ From what I know of him, I think he will be able to 
hold up his head in spite of it.” 

They both laughed. 

“ By the way, that reminds me ” — and Lucy produced a 
letter from her pocket — “he is awfully anxious that you 
should come to us for a few weeks this vacation. You have 
no idea what a conquest you have made in that quarter. In 
fact I have been shining with reflected lustre ever since he 
met you. He thinks there must be something in me after 
all, since I have had the sense to appreciate you.” 

“ I wonder wherein the attraction between us lies,” 
Mona said, reflectively. “ I suppose I am really less grave 
than I appear, and you on the whole are less of a flibberti- 
gibbet than the world takes you to be. So we meet on 
something of a common ground. I see in you a side of my 
nature which in the ordinary course of events I don’t find 
it easy to express, and possibly you see something of the 
same sort in me. Each of us relieves the other of the 
necessity — ” 

“ Don’t prose, please ! ” interrupted Lucy. “ I never 
yet found the smallest difficulty in expressing myself, and 
— the saints be praised ! — you are not always quite so dull as 
you are to-day. I suppose you won’t come? What are 
tennis-parties and picnics to a Wandering Jew like you ?” 

“ It is awfully kind of your father. I can’t tell you how 


8 


MONA MACLEAN. 


much I appreciate his goodness ; but I am afraid I can’t 
come.” 

“ I thought so. Is it the North Pole or the wilds of 
Arabia this time ? ” 

Mona laughed. “ To tell the truth,” she said, “ I must 
have a day with my accounts and my bank-book before I 
stir from Gower Street.” 

“ What ! you, Croesus? ” 

“ The reproach is deserved, whether you meant it for one 
or not. I have been spending too much. What with extra 
laboratory work in winter, and coaching last term — ” 

“ And all those pretty dresses.” 

“ And all those pretty dresses,” repeated Mona, with the 
air of one who is making a deliberate confession. 

“ And nice damp uncut volumes.” 

“ Not too many of those,” with a defiant little nod of 
self-defence. 

“ And divers charities.” 

“ Nay, alas ! My bank-book has not suffered much from 
them.” 

“ And concert tickets, and gloves for impecunious friends, 
not to say a couple of excellent stalls from time to time — ” 

“ Nonsense, Lucy ! Considering how hard we have 
worked, I don’t think you and I have been at all extrava- 
gant in our amusements. No, no, I ought to be able to 
afford all that. My father left me three hundred a-year, 
more or less.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” If Mona had added a cipher, the sum 
could scarcely have impressed her companion more. 

“ There ! that is so like you schoolgirls — ” 

“ Schoolgirls, indeed ! ” 

“ You have your allowance of thirty or forty pounds, 
and you flatter yourselves that you dress on it, travel on it, 
amuse yourselves on it, and surreptitiously feed on it. You 
never notice the countless things that come to you from 
your parents, as naturally as the air you breathe. You go 
with your mother to her cupboards and store closets, or with 
your father to town, and all the time you are absorbing 
money or money’s worth. Then you get into debt ; there is 
a scene, a few tears, and your father’s hand goes into his 
pocket, and you find yourself with your debts paid, and one 
or two pounds to the good. I know all about it. Your 


IN THE GARDEN. 


9 


allowance is the sheerest farce. Cut off all those chances 
and possibilities, banish the very conception of elasticity 
from your mind, before you judge of my income.” 

Lucy’s eyes had been fixed on the ground. She raised 
them now, and said very slowly, with a trick of manner she 
had caught from her friend — 

“ I don’t think I ever heard such a one-sided statement 
in my life.” 

Mona laughed. “ Every revolution and reformation the 
world has seen has been the fruit of a one-sided statement.” 

“ I have already asked you not to prose. Besides, your 
good seed has fallen on stony ground for once. Please don’t 
attempt to revolutionise or reform me ! ” 

“ My dear, if you indulge in the pedantry of quotation 
from ancient Jewish literature, pray show some familiarity 
with the matter of it. Although, as you remind me, I am 
not a country clergyman’s daughter, you will allow me to 
remind you that the seed on the stony ground did spring 
up.” 

“ Bother the seed on stony ground ! You said your in- 
come was three hundred a-year.” 

“ More or less. This year it happens to be less, and I 
have a strong suspicion that I am in shallow water. If, as I 
fervently hope, my suspicion is incorrect, I mean to have a 
fortnight’s walking in Skye. In any case, I have promised 
to spend a month on the East Coast of Scotland with a 
cousin of my father’s.” 

“ I thought you had no cousins ? ” 

“No more I have — to call cousins. I never saw this one, 
and I don’t suppose I should ever have heard of her if she 
had not written to borrow twenty pounds from me a few 
years ago. She is quite comfortably off now, but she can- 
not get over her gratitude. I don’t suppose she is exactly 
what you would call a lady. My grandfather was the suc- 
cessful man of the family in his generation, and my father 
was the same in the next ; so it is my fault if cousin Rachel 
and I have not ‘ gone off on different lines.’ ” 

“ But why do you go to her ? ” 

“ I don’t know. It is an old promise — in fact, she wants 
me to live with her altogether — and I am curious to see my 
4 ancestral towers.’ ” 

“ And have you no other relatives ? ” 


10 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona laughed. “ My mother’s sister has just come home 
from India with her husband, but we are just as far apart 
as when continents and oceans divided us. I don’t think 
my mother and she quite hit it off. Besides, I can imagine 
her opinion of medical women, and I don’t suppose she ever 
heard of blessed Bloomsbury.” 

“ Wait a little,” said Lucy. “ When you are a famous 
physician — ” 

“ I know — bowling along on C springs — ” 

“ Drawn by a pair of prancing, high-stepping greys — ” 

“ Leaning back on the luxurious cushions — ” 

“ Wrapt to the ears in priceless sables — ” 

“ My waiting-room crowded with patient Duchesses. 
Yes, of course, she will be sorry then. I suppose she will 
have an illness, some ‘ obscure internal lesion ’ which will 
puzzle all the London doctors. As a last resource she will 
apply to me. I wave my wand. Hey, presto ! she is cured I 
But you can’t expect her to foresee all that. It would ar- 
gue more than average intelligence, and, besides, it would 
spoil the story.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LISTS. 

There was no doubt about it. The lists were up. 

As the girls passed through the bar from Vigo Street, 
they could see a little knot of men, silent and eager, gath- 
ered on the steps in front of the notice-case. Those who 
had secured a good position were leisurely entering sundry 
jottings in their notebooks; those behind were straining 
their eyes, straining every muscle in their bodies, in the en- 
deavour to ascertain the one all-important fact. 

“ I told you we should have waited,” Mona said, quietly, 
striving to make the most of a somewhat limited stock of 
breath. 

“ If you tell me the name of the person you are inter- 
ested in, perhaps I can help you,” said a tall man who was 
standing beside them. 


THE LISTS. 


11 


“ Oh, thank you,” Mona smiled pleasantly. “We can 
wait. We — are interested in — in several people.” 

He stood aside to let them pass in front of him, and in a 
few minutes their turn came. 

“ Second Division ! ” ejaculated Lucy, in mingled relief 
and disgust, as she came to her own name. “ Thank heaven 
even for that ! Just let me take a note of the others. Now 
for the Honours list, and Mona Maclean ! ” 

The Honours list was all too short, and a few seconds 
were sufficient to convince them — 

“ Oh ! ” burst involuntarily from Lucy’s lips, as the 
truth forced itself upon her. 

“ Hush ! ” said Mona, hastily, in a low voice. u It is all 
right. Come along.” 

She hurried Lucy down the steps, past the post-office, 
and into Regent Street. 

“ You know, dear, there are those confounded telegrams 
to be sent off,” said Lucy, deprecatingly. 

“ Yes, yes, I know. There is no hurry. Let me think.” 

They strolled along in the bright sunshine, but Mona 
felt as cold as lead. She did not believe that she had failed. 
There must be some mistake. They had misspelt her name, 
perhaps, or possibly omitted it by accident. They would 
correct the mistake to-morrow. It could not be that she 
had really failed again. After all, was she sure that her 
name was not there ? 

“ Lucy,” she said at last, “ do you mind going back 
with me to the University, and glancing over the lists 
again ? ” 

“ Yes, do. We must have made a mistake. It is simply 
ridiculous.” 

But in her heart of hearts she knew that they had not 
made a mistake. 

The little crowd had almost dispersed when they re- 
turned, and there was nothing to prevent a quiet and thor- 
ough study of the lists. 

“ It is infamous,” said Lucy, “ simply infamous ! Small 
credit it is to me to have passed when that is all the exam- 
iners know of their work ! ” 

“ Nonsense ! It’s all right. You know I had my weak 
subject. Come.” 

“ Will you wait here while I send off the telegrams?” 


12 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“No, I will come with you.” 

They passed out of the heat and glare into the dusty lit- 
tle shop, and Mona leaned her elbow wearily on the counter. 
She had begun to believe it now, but not to realise it in the 
least. “ How horribly I shall be suffering to-morrow ! ” 
she thought, with a shiver of dread. 

“ Weal and woe ! ” she said, smiling, as she read the 
telegrams Lucy had scribbled. “ Two women shall be grind- 
ing at the mill ; the one shall be taken and the other left.” 

“ Don't,” said Lucy, with a little stamp of her foot. For 
the moment she was suffering more than Mona. 

They walked home in silence to the house in Gower 
Street. 

“Come in to tea? No? Well, good-bye, dear. Take 
care of yourself. My love and duty to your father and 
mother. Write to me here.” 

She nodded brightly, opened the door with her latch- 
key, and entered the cool dark house. 

Very slowly she dragged herself up to her pretty sitting- 
room, and shut the door. She winced as her eye fell on the 
old familiar sights — Quain, and Foster, and Mitchell Bruce, 
the Leitz under its glass shade, and the box of what she was 
pleased to dub “ ivory toys.” Then her eye fell on her own 
reflection in the draped mirror, and she walked straight up 
to the white, strong, sensitive face. 

“ Who cares ? ” she said, defiantly. “ Not you nor I ! 
What does it matter ? Ay de mi ! What does anything 
mean ? What is success or failure after all ? ” 

From which soliloquy you will be able to form a pretty 
definite idea of my heroine’s age. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ ADOLESCENT INSANITY.” 

“ Rather than go through all that strain again,” said 
Mona the next morning, “ I would throw up the whole 
thing and emigrate.” 


ADOLESCENT INSANITY/ 


13 


She was leaning back on the pillows, her hair all tumbled 
into curls after a restless night, her hands playing absently 
with the lace on her morning wrapper. “ Why doesn’t the 
coffee come ? ” 

As she spoke the maid came in with a tempting little 
tray. Mona was a lodger worth having. 

“ You look ill, miss,” said the girl. 

“No. Only a headache. I am not going out this morn- 
ing. Bring the hot water in half an hour.” 

“ What do people do when they emigrate ? ” she went 
on, when the maid had gone. “ They start off with tin pots 
and pans, but what do they do when they arrive ? I wonder 
what sort of farmer I should make ? There must be plenty 
of good old yeomanry blood in my veins. ‘ Two men I 
honour and no third ’ — but the feminine of digging and 
delving, I suppose, is baking and mending. Heigh-ho ! 
this can scarcely be checkmate at my time of life, but it 
looks uncommonly like it.” 

An hour later she was deep in her accounts ; the table 
before her littered with manuscript books and disjointed 
scraps of addition and subtraction. The furrow on her 
brow gradually deepened. 

“ Shallow water ! ” she said at last, very slowly, raising 
her head and folding her arms as she spoke ; “ shallow water 
was a euphemism. It seems to me, my dear Lucy, that your 
friend is on the rocks.” 

She sat for a long time in silence, and then ran her eye 
quickly over a pile of unanswered letters. She extracted 
one, leaned back in her chair, and looked at the envelope 
critically. 

“ Not strictly what one would call a gentlewoman’s let- 
ter,” she said ; “ in fact, a sneering outsider might be tempt- 
ed to use the word illiterate. Well, what then? ” 

She took out the enclosure and read it through very care- 
fully. She had tossed it aside thoughtlessly enough when 
it had found her, a fortnight before, in all the excitement 
of the examination ; but now the utterances of the Delphic 
oracle could not have been studied with closer attention. 

“ My dear Cousin, — Yours safely to hand this morn- 
ing, and very glad I was to get it. I am afraid you will find 
us dull company here after London, but we will do our best.” 


14 


MONA MACLEAN. 


(“ H’m,” said Mona. “ That means tea-parties — cookies 
and shortbread — a flower-show or two in the grounds of the 
Towers, no doubt, — possibly even a soiree in the chapel. 
Wild excitement ! ”) 

“ Nobody here knows anything about your meaning to 
be a doctor, and what we don’t know does us no harm. 
They would think it a queer kind of notion in these parts, 
as you know I do myself, and keep hoping you will find 
some nice gentleman — ” 

(“Gentleman!” groaned Mona.) 

“ who will put the idea out of your head. My niece, 

who has been living with me for years, has just sailed for 
America to be married. You are almost the only friend I 
have now in the country, and I wish you could see your 
way to staying with me till you get married yourself. It 
would do no harm to save your own money a bit ; your com- 
pany would be gain enough to me. I must look out for 
some one at once, and it would make a great difference in 
my life to have you. Blood’s thicker than water, you know.” 

(“ That I don’t,” said Mona. “ My dear woman, any 
chance advertiser in to-day’s paper would probably suit you 
better than I. It is as bad as adopting a foundling.”) 

“ Write me a line when to expect you. 

“ Your affectionate cousin, 

“Bachel Simpson.” 

Mona folded the letter thoughtfully, and returned it to 
its envelope. Then she rose from her writing-table, threw 
herself into a rocking-chair, and clasped her hands behind 
her head. 

Many a perplexing problem had been solved to the 
rhythm of that pleasant motion, but to-day the physical 
exercise was insufficient. She got up impatiently and paced 
the room. From time to time she stopped at the window, 
and gazed half absently at the luggage-laden hansoms hur- 
rying to and from the stations. 

“ Shooting, and fishing, and sketching, and climbing,” 
she thought to herself. “ Why am I so out of it all ? If 
there was a corner of the earth to which I really cared to 
go, I would undertake to raise the money, but there is not 
a wish in my heart. I scarcely even wish I had passed my 
examination.” 


ADOLESCENT INSANITY.’ 


15 


She returned at last to the writing-table, took pen and 
paper, and wrote hastily without stopping to think. She 
was in the mood in which people rush at decisions which 
may make or mar a life. 

“ My dear Cousin Rachel, — I was very busy and pre- 
occupied when your letter reached me, or it would have been 
answered before now. 

“ I don’t wonder that you see no need for women doc- 
tors — living as you do in a healthy country village, where I 
suppose no one is ever ill unless from old age, a fever, or a 
broken leg. Perhaps if you saw something of hospital work 
here, you would think differently ; but we can discuss that 
question when we meet. Whether I personally am qualified 
for the life I have chosen, is a quite separate question. 
About that, no doubt, there might be two unprejudiced 
opinions. I have not been very successful of late, although 
I am convinced that I have done good work ; and I have 
been spending more money than I ought to have done. 
For these reasons, and for others which it is not so easy to 
put into words, I am anxious to escape for a time from the 
noise and bustle and excitement of London. I should like 
to be in some country place where I could think, and read, 
and live quietly, and if possible be of some little use to some- 
body. You are kind enough — not knowing what an un- 
amiable, self-centred person I am — to offer me a home with 
you for an indefinite period ; so, if you really care to pur- 
chase 4 a pig in a poke,’ I will come to you for six months. 
By the end of that time you will have discovered most of 
my faults, and will have found some one who would suit 
you a great deal better. I will pay you whatever you con- 
sider the equivalent of my board, and if I can be of use to 
you in any way I shall be only too glad. 

“ Believe me always 

“ Your affectionate cousin, 

“Mona Maclean.” 

Lunch was on the table before she had finished writing. 
She lifted the cover and looked at the nicely-cooked dish 
with irrepressible disgust, then helped herself, and — fell 
a-dreaming. 

“ Mona, my dear, this will never do,” she said, rousing 


16 


MONA MACLEAN. 


herself with an effort. “ Checkmate or no checkmate, I 
can’t have you fading away like a lovely flower. What is 
the use of this Nier steiner if it does not make you eat ? 
Horst dn wohl ? ” She made a heroic attempt if not a very 
successful one, and then proceeded to read, over critically the 
letter she had just written. 

She shrugged her shoulders as she closed the envelope. 

“ Adolescent insanity ! ” she exclaimed cynically. “ Well, 
why not ? Some of us are adolescent, I suppose, and most 
of us are insane.” 

She put on her hat and strolled down towards Oxford 
Street to post the letter. It suited her mood to drop it into 
the letter-box with her own hands, and, besides, she was 
rarely so depressed as not to be amused by the shop windows. 
To-day, however, the gay shows in Regent Street fell upon 
eyes that saw not. “ If I had only passed,” she said, “ how 
happy I should be ! ” 

She turned wearily homewards, and was met in the hall 
by the maid. 

“ If you please, miss, two ladies called while you were 
out. They were in a carriage, and they left this card.” 

Mona went up- stairs as she read it. 

“ Lady Munro ” was the name on the card ; an address 
in Gloucester Place, Portman Square, was scrawled in the 
corner ; and on the back in pencil — 

“ So sorry to miss you. You must dine with us without 
fail on Friday at eight. No refusal.” 

A pleased smile crossed Mona’s face. 

“ She is spoiling the story,” she said. Then the smile 
was chased away by a frown. 

“ If only the story had not spoiled itself ! ” 

And then she bethought herself of the letter she had 
posted. 


SIR DOUGLAS. 


17 


CHAPTER IV. 

SIR DOUGLAS. 

W heit Friday evening came, Mona took a curious pleas- 
ure in making the very most of herself. 

She knew, as well as any outsider could have told her, 
that her present depression and apathy were but the measure 
of the passionate enthusiasm with which she had lived the 
life of her choice ; and yet it was inevitable that for the 
time she should look at life wholly on the shadowed side. 
Past and future seemed alike gloomy and forbidding — 
“ Grau , grau , gleicligiiltig grau ” — and the eager, unconscious 
protest of youth against such a destiny, took the form of a 
resolution to enjoy to the utmost this glimpse of brightness 
and colour. She would forget all but the present ; new sur- 
roundings should find her for the moment a new being. 

When she reached Gloucester Place, Lady Munro and 
her daughter were alone in the drawing-room. 

Lady Munro was one of those people who make a marked 
impress on their material surroundings. The rooms in 
which she lived quickly became, as it were, a part of herself, 
which her friends could not fail to recognise as such. 

Eastern rugs and draperies clothed the conventional 
London sitting-room ; luxuriant tropical-looking plants 
were grouped in corners, great sensuous roses lolled in 
Chuddah bowls, and a few rich quaint lamps cast a mellow 
glow across the twilight of the room. 

“ Why, Mona, can it really be you?” Lady Munro rose 
from her lounge, and kissed her niece affectionately on both 
cheeks. For a moment Mona could scarcely find words. 
She was keenly susceptible at all times to the beauty of 
luxury, and the very atmosphere of this room called up with 
irresistible force forgotten memories of childhood. The 
touch of this gracious woman’s lips, the sound of her voice, 
the soft frou-frou of her gown, all gave Mona a sense of 
exquisite physical pleasure. Lady Munro was not, strictly 
speaking, a beautiful woman ; but a subtle grace, a subtle 
fascination, a subtle perfume were part of her very being. 
She was worshipped by all the men who knew her, but the 
most cynical of her husband’s friends could not deny that 

2 


18 


MONA MACLEAN. 


she was no whit less charming in her intercourse with her 
own sex than she was with them. She was not brilliant ; 
she was not fast ; she was simply herself. 

“ This is my daughter Evelyn,” she said ; and she laid 
her hand on a sweet, quiet, overgrown English schoolgirl — 
one of those curious chrysalis beings whom a few months of 
Anglo-Indian society transforms from a child into a finished 
woman of the world. 

“ I expect my husband every moment. He is longing to 
meet you.” 

Evelyn slowly raised her blue eyes, looked quietly at her 
mother for a moment, and let them fall again without the 
smallest change of expression. In fact, Lady Munro’s re- 
mark was a graceful modification of the truth. Sir Douglas 
Munro was nothing if not a man of the world. He knew 
the points of a wine, and he knew the points of a horse ; 
but above all he flattered himself that he knew the points of 
a woman. He had made a study of them all his life, and he 
believed, perhaps rightly, that he could read them like an 
open book. “ Sweet seventeen ” was at a cruel disadvantage 
in his hands, if indeed he exerted himself to speak to her at 
all. The genus Medical Woman was not as yet included in 
his collection, but he had heard of it, and had classified it in 
his own mind as a useful but uninteresting hybrid, which 
could not strictly be called a woman at all. In the sense, 
therefore, in which a lukewarm entomologist “ longs to 
meet ” the rare but ugly beetle which he believes will com- 
plete his cabinet, Sir Douglas Munro was “ longing ” to 
make the acquaintance of Mona Maclean. 

The new beetle certainly took him by surprise when he 
came in a minute later. 

“ Mona ! ” he replied to his wife’s introduction ; “ Mona 
Maclean — the doctor ? ” 

Mona laughed as she rose, and took his proffered 
hand. 

“ Far from it,” she said. “ In the vacation I try to for- 
get that I am even the makings of one.” 

She looked almost handsome as she stood there in the 
soft light of the room. Lady Munro forgot that her niece 
was a medical student, and experienced a distinct sense of 
pride and proprietorship. No ordinary modiste, she felt 
sure, had arranged those folds of soft grey crape, and the 


SIR DOUGLAS. 


19 


dash of glowing crimson geraniums on the shoulder was the 
touch of an artist. 

“ Mona is the image of her mother,” she said. 

u . Ye-e-s,” said Sir Douglas, availing himself of his wife’s 
relationship to look at Mona very frankly. “ She reminds 
me a good deal of what you were at her age.” 

u Nonsense ! ” said Mona, hastily. “ Remember I am 
not used to flattery.” 

“To receiving or to paying it? ” 

“To neither ; ” and she turned a look of very honest and 
almost child-like admiration on her aunt. 

Sir Douglas looked pleased, although he himself had long 
ceased to pay his wife compliments. 

“ There’s a great deal of your father in your face, too,” 
he said. “ You have got his mouth. Ah, he was a good 
fellow ! 1 could tell you many a story of our Indian life — a 

man in a thousand ! ” 

“ You could tell me nothing I should more dearly like 
to hear,” said Mona, with eager interest. 

“ Ah, well — some day, some day.” 

A native . servant announced dinner, and Sir Douglas 
gave Mona his arm. 

“ What ! another scene from the ‘Arabian Nights ’ ? ” 
she said as they entered the dining-room. “ It is clear that 
a very wonderful genius presides over your household.” 

“ You are going to have an Indian dinner, too,” said 
Lady Munro. “ Nubboo makes all the entrees and soups 
and sauces. He is worth half-a-dozen English servants.” 

Mona looked up at the dark bearded face under the vo- 
luminous white turban, but she could not tell whether Nub- 
boo had heard the remark. All the philosophy of Buddh 
might lie behind those sad impenetrable eyes, or he might 
be thinking merely of the entrees ; it was impossible to say. 
If the whole occasion had not seemed to her, as she said, a 
bit out of the “ Arabian Nights,” she would have thought it 
sacrilege that a man with such a face should be employed in 
so trivial an occupation as waiting at table. 

“ When I look at Nubboo I can almost believe myself a 
baby again,” she said. “ He seems like a bit of my dream- 
world.” 

The feeblest ghost of a smile flitted across the man’s 
face, as he moved noiselessly from place to place. 


20 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ It must be a dream-world,” laughed her aunt. “ You 
cannot remember much of that ! ” 

“ I don’t ; ” and Mona sighed. 

Lady Munro and Mona kept the ball going between 
them during dinner. Evelyn only spoke now and then, to 
water down one of her mother’s most piquant and highly 
seasoned remarks ; and she did this with a hidden sense of 
humour which never rose to the surface in her face. Sir 
Douglas spoke as much as courtesy absolutely demanded, 
but no more. The new beetle was evidently perplexing him 
profoundly. 

Lady Munro’s feeling for her niece was one of mingled 
pride, affection, disgust, and fear — disgust for the life-work 
she had chosen, fear of her supposed “ cleverness.” Lady 
Munro despised learned women, but she was not at all will- 
ing that they should despise her. She exerted herself to 
talk well, but even Mona’s evident admiration could not put 
her quite at her ease. 

“ How is it we have seen so little of you, Mona ? ” she 
said, when they had left Sir Douglas to his wine. “ Where 
were you when we were last at home ? ” 

“ In Germany, I suppose. I went there for three years 
after I left school.” 

“ To study music?” 

“ Both music and painting in a small way.” 

“ You wonderful girl ! Then you are a musician? ” 

“ Gott lewalire! ” burst from Mona involuntarily. “ My 
musical friends thought me a Turner, and my artistic 
friends thought me a Bubenstein ; from which you may 
gather the truth, that I had no real gift for either.” 

“ So you say ! I expect you are an ‘ admirable Crich- 
ton.’ ” 

“If that be a euphemism for ‘ Jack-of-all-trades and 
master of none,’ I suppose I am — alas ! ” 

“ And does Homer never nod ? Do you never amuse 
yourself like other girls ? ” 

“ I am afraid I must not allow you to call me a girl. I 
believe you have my grandmother’s family Bible. Yes, in- 
deed, Homer nods a great deal more than is consistent with 
his lofty calling. I am an epicure in frivolling.” 

“In what?” 

“Forgive my school slang! It means that I indulge 


SIR DOUGLAS. 


21 


quite freely enough in concerts, theatres, and in picture- 
galleries — not to say shop windows.” 

“You don’t mean to say that you care for shop win- 
dows ? ” and again Lady Munro’s glance rested with satis- 
faction on Mona’s pretty gown, although she was half afraid 
her niece was laughing at her. 

“ Oh, don’t I? You little know ! ” 

“ Pictures, I suppose, and old china and furniture and 
that sort of thing,” said Lady Munro, treading cautiously. 

“ Yes, I like all those, but I like pretty bonnets too, and 
tea-gowns and laces and notepaper and — every kind of ar- 
rant frivolity and bagatelle. But they must be pretty, you 
know. I am not caught with absolute chaff.” 

“ You don’t care about fashion, you mean.” 

Mona drew down her brows in deep thought. Clearly 
she was talking honestly. Then she shook her head with a 
light laugh. 

“ I am getting into deep water,” she said. “ I am afraid 
I do care about fashion, fashion qua fashion, fashion pure 
and simple.” 

“ Not if it is ugly?” questioned Evelyn gravely. 

“Not if it is ugly, surely ; but I question if it often is 
ugly in the hands of the artists among dressmakers. It is 
just as unfair to judge of a fashion as it issues from the 
hands of a mere seamstress, as it is to judge of an air from 
its rendering on a barrel organ or a penny trumpet.” 

Lady Munro laughed. “ I shall tell my husband that,” 
she said. “ Douglas ” — as he entered the room — “ you 
have no idea of the heresies Mona has been confessing. 
She cares as much about new gowns and bonnets as any- 
body.” 

Sir Douglas looked at Mona very gravely. Either he 
had not heard the remark, or he was striving to adapt it to 
his mental sketch of her character. 

He seated himself on the sofa beside her, and turned 
towards her as though he meant to exclude his wife and 
daughter from the conversation. 

“ Have you seriously taken up the study of medicine ? ” 
he asked. 

“ Now for it ! ” thought Mona. 

She took for granted that he was a decided enemy of 
the “ movement,” and although at the moment she was in 


22 


MONA MACLEAN. 


little humour for the old battle, she was bound to be true 
to her colours. So she donned her armour wearily. 

“ I certainly have,” she said quietly. 

“ And you mean to practise ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

The examination and its concomitant sorrows were for- 
gotten. She answered the question as she would have an- 
swered it at any time in the last three or four years. 

“ Are you much interested in the work ? ” 

“ Very much,” she said, warmly. 

“ I am sure you need scarcely ask that,” said Lady Mun- 
ro, with a kind smile. “ One does not undertake that sort 
of thing pour s'amuser ! ” 

“ There are other motives,” he said, looking severely at 
his wife. “ There is ambition.” This was shrewdly said, 
and Mona’s respect for her opponent rose. A fit of cough- 
ing had interrupted him. 

His wife looked at him anxiously. “ I wish you would 
prescribe for my husband,” she said, smiling. 

“ Don't ! ” ejaculated Sir Douglas, fiercely, before the 
cough gave him breath to speak. 

At this moment Nubboo announced a visitor, a cousin of 
Sir Douglas’, and the latter seemed glad of an interruption 
which allowed him to have Mona entirely to himself. 

He shook hands with his visitor, and then, returning to 
Mona’s side, sat in silence for a few moments as if trying to 
collect his thoughts. 

“ The fact is,” he broke out impulsively at last, “ I am 
torn asunder on this subject of women doctors — torn 
asunder. There is a terrible necessity for them — terrible — 
and yet, what a sacrifice ! ” 

Mona could scarcely believe her ears. This was very 
different from the direct, brutal attack she had anticipated. 
Instinctively she laid down her armour, and left herself at 
his mercy. 

“ I think you are unusually liberal to admit the neces- 
sity,” she said, but her sweet earnest face said much more 
for her than her words. 

“ Liberal ! ” he said. “ What man can live and not ad- 
mit it ? It makes me mad to think how a woman can allow 
herself to be pulled about by a man. Fifty years hence no 
woman will have the courage to own that it ever happened to 


SIR DOUGLAS. 


23 


her. But the sacrifice is a fearful one. Picture my allowing 
Evelyn to go through what you are going through ! ” And 
his glance rested fondly on his daughter’s fair head. 

“ I agree with you so far,” said Mona, “ that no woman 
should undertake such work under the age of twenty- 
three.” 

“ Twenty -three /” he repeated. “It is bad for a man , 
but a man has some virtues which remain untouched by it. 
A woman loses everything that makes womanhood fair and 
attractive. You must be becoming hard and blunted ! ” 

He looked at her as if demanding an answer. 

“ I hope not,” said Mona quietly, and her eyes met his. 

“ You hope not ! ” He dashed back her words with all 
the vehemence of an evangelical preacher who receives 
them in answer to his all-important question. “You hope 
not ! Is that all you can say ? You are not sure ? ” 

“ It is difficult to judge of one’s self,” said Mona 
thoughtfully, turning her face full to his piercing gaze; 
“ and one’s own opinion would not be worth having. I be- 
lieve I am not becoming hardened. I am sure my friends 
would say I am not.” 

She felt as if he were reading her inmost soul, and for 
the moment she was willing that he should. No other argu- 
ment would be of any weight in such a discussion as this. 

He dropped his eyes, half ashamed of his vehemence. 
“No need to tell me that,” he said, hurriedly. “ I am used 
to reading women’s faces. I have been searching yours all 
evening for the hard lines that must be there, but there is 
not a trace that is not perfectly womanly. And yet I can- 
not understand it ! From the very nature of your work you 
must revel in scenes of horror.” 

“ That I am sure we don’t ! ” said Mona, warmly. She 
would have laughed if they had both been less in earnest. 
“ You don’t say that of all the noble nurses who have had 
to face scenes of horror.” 

“ But you must become blunted, if you are to be of any 
use.” 

“ I don’t think blunted is the word. It is extremely 
true, as some one says, that pity becomes transformed from 
a blind impulse into a motive.” 

He seemed to be weighing this. 

“ You dissect?” he said presently. 


24c 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Yes.” 

“ Think of that alone ! It is human butchery.” 

“ Of course you must know that I do not look upon it in 
that light.” 

But a sense of hopelessness came upon her, as she real- 
ised how she was handicapped in this discussion. She must 
either be silent or speak in an unknown tongue. How could 
she explain to this man the wonder and the beauty of the 
work that he dismissed in a beautiful phrase ? How could 
she talk of that ever-new field for observation, corroboration, 
and discovery ; that unlimited scope for the keen eye, the j 
skilful hand, the thinking brain, the mature judgment? 
How could she describe those exquisite mechanisms and 
traceries, those variations of a common type, developing in 
accordance with fixed law, and yet with a perfectness of 
adaptation that a priori would have seemed like an impos- 
sible fairy tale ? How cruelly she would be misunderstood 
if she talked here of the passionate delight of discovery, of 
the enthusiasm that had often made her forgetful of time 
and of all other claims ? “ To be a true anatomist,” she 
thought with glowing face, “ one would need to be a mecha- 
nician and a scientist, an artist and a philosopher. He who 
is not something of all these must be content to learn his 
work as a trade.” 

Sir Douglas was looking at her intently. As a medical 
student she had got beyond his range. As a woman, for the 
moment, she was beautiful. Such a light is only seen in the 
eyes of those who can see the ideal in the actual. 

But he had not finished his study. He must bring her 
down to earth again. 

“Do you remember your first day in the dissecting- 
room ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mona. She sighed deeply, and the light 
died out of her eyes. 

“ A ghastly experience ! ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And yet you say you have not become blunted ? ” 

“ I do not think,” said Mona, trying hard with a woman’s 
instinct to avoid the least suspicion of dogmatism — “ I do 
not think that one becomes blunted when one ceases to look 
at the garbage side of a subject. Every subject, I suppose, 
has its garbage side, if one is on the look-out for it ; and in 


SIR DOUGLAS. 


25 


anatomy, unfortunately, that is the side that strikes one first, 
and consequently the only one outsiders ever see. It is dif- 
ficult to discuss the question with one who is not a doctor ” 
(“nor a scientist,” she added inwardly), “but if you had 
pursued the study, I think you would see that one must, 
in time, lose sight of all but the wonder and the beauty 
of it.” 

There was a long pause. 

“ When you are qualified,” he said at last, “ you only 
mean to attend your own sex ? ” 

“ Oh, of course,” said Mona, warmly. 

He seemed relieved. 

“ That was why my wife made me angry by suggesting, 
even in play, that you should prescribe for me. You women 
are — with or without conscious sacrifice — wading through 
seas of blood to right a terrible evil that has hitherto been 
an inevitable one. If you deliberately and gratuitously re- 
peat that evil by extending your services to men, the sac- 
rifice has all been for nothing, and less than nothing.” 

He spoke with his old vehemence, and then relapsed into 
silence. 

His next remark sounded curiously irrelevant. 

“ How long do you remain here ? ” 

“ In London ? I don’t quite know. I am going to visit 
a cousin in ten days or so.” 

Sir Douglas took advantage of a pause in the conversa- 
tion between his wife and their visitor. 

“ Bruce,” he said, “ let me introduce you to my niece, 
Miss Maclean.” 

“ That,” he continued to his wife, with a movement of 
his head in Mona’s direction, “ is a great medical light.” 

Mona laughed. 

“ I am sure of it,” said Lady Munro, with her irresistible 
smile. “ As for me, I would as soon have a woman doctor 

as a man.” _ 

Sir Douglas threw back his head and clapped his hands, 
with a harsh laugh. 

“ Well,” he said, “ when you come to say that — the skies 
will fall.” 

“ Douglas, what do you mean ? ” She looked annoyed. 
At the moment she really believed that she had been an ad- 
vocate of women doctors all her life. Sir Douglas seated 


26 


MONA MACLEAN. 


himself on a low chair beside her, and began to play with 
her embroidery silks. 

When Mona rose to go, a little later, Lady Munro took 
her hand affectionately. 

“ Mona,” she said, “ I told you we were starting on 
Monday morning for a short tour in Norway. My husband 
and I should be so pleased if you would go with us.” 

Mona’s cheek flushed. “ How very kind,” she said. “ I 
am so sorry it is impossible.” 

“Why?” said Sir Douglas, quickly. “ You don’t need 
to go to your cousin till the end of the month.” 

Mona’s colour deepened. “ There is no use in. beating 
about the bush,” she said. “ The fact is, I am engaged in 
the interesting occupation of retrenching just now. You 
know ” — as Sir Douglas looked daggers — “ I have not the 
smallest claim on you.” 

He laughed, and laid his hand on her shoulder. 

“ Don’t be afraid, Mona,” he said. “We are not trying 
to establish a claim on you. The great medical light shall 
go in and out as heretofore, without let or hindrance. Give 
us your society for a fortnight, and we shall be only too 
much your debtors.” 

“ It will make the greatest difference to all of us ! ” said 
Lady Munro, warmly. 

And Evelyn, with the facile friendship of a schoolgirl, 
slipped her arm caressingly round her cousin’s waist. 

And so it was arranged. 

“ Shall Nubboo call you a hansom ? ” said Lady Munro. 

“She doesn’t want a hansom,” said Sir Douglas. 
“ Throw your gown over your arm, and put on a cloak, and 
I will see you home.” 

It was a beautiful summer night ; the air was soft and 
pleasant after the burning heat of the day. 

It was natural that Sir Douglas should be curious to see 
the habitat of his new beetle, and after all, he was practi- 
cally her uncle ; but she held out her hand, meeting his 
eyes with a frank smile. 

“ You have been very kind to me,” she said. “ Good 
night.” 

“ I am afraid Lucy would say I had not 4 stood up ’ to 
him enough,” she thought. “ But all he wanted was to 
dissect me, and I hope he has done it satisfactorily. What 


AN AGATE KNIFE-EDGE.’ 


27 


a curious man he is ! I wonder if any one ever took quite 
that view of the subject before? Not at all the view of a 
Sir Galahad, I fancy ” — and she thought of a passage that 
had puzzled her in “ Rhoda Fleming ” — “ but he was kind to 
me, and honest with me, and I like him. I must try very 
hard not to become unconsciously ‘ blunted 5 as he calls it.” 

Her eye fell on a letter from her cousin, and she sat 
down in her rocking-chair, cast a regretful glance at the 
withered maidenhairs on her shoulder, and tore open the 
envelope. 

“ My dear Cousin, — Your letter has just come in, and 
very good news it is. All the world looks brighter since I 
read it. I will do my best to make you happy, and although 
you will have plenty of time to yourself, you will be of the 
greatest use to me. Both in the house and in the shop — ” 

“ Good God ! ” said Mona ; and, letting the letter fall, 
she buried her face in her hands. 


CHAPTER Y. 

“AN AGATE KNIFE-EDGE.” 

It is doubtful whether Mona had ever received such a 
shock in the whole course of her life. 

She had always been told, and she had gloried in the 
knowledge, that her father’s father was a self-made man ; 
but the very fact that she did thus glory was a proof, per- 
haps in more ways than one, that the process of “ making ” 
had been a very complete one. She vaguely knew, but she 
did not in the least realise, what people may be before they 
are “ made.”- She had taken for granted, as she told Lucy, 
that her cousin Rachel was “ not exactly what one would 
call a lady;” but she had unconsciously pictured to herself 
a pretty cottage embowered in roses, a simple primitive life, 
early dinners, occasional afternoon calls, rare tea-parties, 
and abundant leisure for walking, reading, thinking, and 


28 


MONA MACLEAN. 


dreaming on the rocks. Her love for the sea, and especially 
for the wild east coast, amounted almost to a passion, which 
hitherto she had had but little opportunity of gratifying ; 
and this love, perhaps, had weighed with her as much as 
anything else, in the decision she had made. 

She had talked with pride of the “good old yeoman 
blood” in her veins, but principle and dainty nurture 
shrank alike from the idea of the middleman — the shop. 

She did not dream of withdrawing from the rashly con- 
cluded bargain. That simple way out of the difficulty 
never suggested itself to her mind. “ After all, could I 
have done any better ? ” she said. “ Even if Sir Douglas 
and my aunt took more than a passing interest in me, 
should I be content to devote my life to them? Hay, 
verily ! ” But all her philosophy could not save her from 
a mauvais quart d’heure — nor from a restless wakeful night 
after she had read the letter. 

And yet the situation appealed irresistibly to her sense 
of h amour. 

“ If only Lucy were here to enjoy it ! ” she said. And 
she found the necessary relief to her feelings in a long letter 
to her friend. 

“ I can see you turn pale at the word shop” she wrote, 
“as I confess I did myself; but I suppose your youthful 
and untrammelled imagination has taken flight at once to 
Parkins & Gotto or Marshall & Snelgrove. My dear, let me 
inform you at once that the town contains less than two 
thousand inhabitants ; and now, will you kindly reflect on 
the number of cubic feet which the Parkins & Gotto and 
Marshall & Snelgrove of such a place would find ample 
for the bestowal of their wares. My own impression is, that 
mv sitting-room would afford sufficient accommodation for 
both, and I am not sure that there would not be room for 
Fortnum & Mason to boot. 

“ If I only knew what I am to sell, it would be some re- 
lief. Tobacco was my first thought, but the place is not big 
enough to support a tobacconist. At whisky I draw the line 
— and yet, on second thoughts, I don’t. If it is tobacco or 
whisky — behold my lifework ! But if it is toffee and ginger- 
bread horses, and those ghastly blue balls — what are they 
for, by the way ? — may the Lord have mercy upon my soul ! 


“AN AGATE KNIFE-EDGE.” 29 

She mentioned her meeting with the Munros, and the 
projected trip to Norway, and then — 

“ I hope the grocer duly congratulated you over the 
counter,” she concluded. “ I take a fraternal interest in 
his behaviour now, and with characteristic catholicity I 
have gone farther afield, and have imagined the very words 
in which the postman delivered his tit-bit of information. 
I have even pictured the farmers forgetting the price of 
hay, and the state of the crops, in the all-absorbing topic of 
the hour. 

“ Your affectionate friend, 

“ Mona Maclean.” 

“And now,” she said to herself, as she surveyed the 
alarming array of trunks and packing-cases which the 
servants had placed in the room — “ now I am in the posi- 
tion commonly described as having my work cut out for 
me ! The valise must do for Norway, that trunk and hat- 
box for Borrowness, and all the rest must be warehoused at 
Tilbury’s.” 

The consideration of her wardrobe provided food for 
some reflection and a good deal of amusement. 

“ Pity there is no time to write to the ‘ Queen ’ for in- 
formation as to outfit desirable for six months in a small 
shop at Borrowness ! ” she thought. 

Finally, she decided on a plain tailor-made tweed, a 
dark-coloured silk, a couple of pretty cotton morning- 
gowns, and a simple evening-dress, “ in case of emergency,” 
she said, but she knew in her heart that no such emergency 
would arise. 

“ The good folks will think those sweetly simple, and 
befitting the state of life to which it has pleased Providence 
to call me,” she said. “ They would stare a little if they 
knew what I had paid for them, I fancy. Borrowness 
‘ verstelit so was nicht ,’ as my dear old Frau used to say of 
Pauline and the asparagus.” 

In the midst of her work Sir Douglas and Evelyn came 
in on some mythical errand. Lady Munro would have 
come herself, but she was so busy. Sir Douglas was in high 
spirits. It really was true of him, what Lady Munro had 
graciously said of all of them, that Mona’s going made the 
greatest difference in the pleasure of the tour. From the 


30 


MONA MACLEAN. 


point of view of personal companionship he had long since 
exhausted his wife, and Evelyn was still too crude and in- 
sipid to be thought of in that capacity. To his peculiar, 
and possibly morbid, taste, Mona’s society had all the 
piquancy which was as desirable to his mind as were Nub- 
boo’s curries to his jaded Anglo-Indian palate. 

It was sad work that packing. Many a bright hope and 
lofty ambition was buried with the books and instruments 
in the great wooden cases ; and who could tell whether there 
would be any resurrection ? Mona felt that another fort- 
night of life would bring her to the end of all things. “A 
world of failure and blighted enthusiasm behind,” she said, 
“ a wild waste of vulgarity and mediocrity in front ; and 
here I stand for an instant poised on an ‘ agate knife-edge ’ 
of fashion and luxury and popularity. Carpe diem ! ” 

“And I’m sure, miss, if you’ll give me what notice you 
can, I’ll do my very best to have the rooms vacant again,” 
said the good-hearted Irish landlady, who kept dropping in 
at the most inconvenient moments to offer assistance and 
shed a few tears. “ It’s little trouble you’ve given, and 
many’s the time it’s done me good to meet your bright face 
on the stair.” 

“ You may be quite sure that if I am ever in London for 
any length of time, I shall try very hard to secure my old 
quarters,” said Mona, cordially ; “ but it is impossible to tell 
what the future may bring ; ” and she sighed. 

If lodgers could be made to order, Mrs. O’Connor would 
fain have had hers a little more communicative. She was 
thirsting for an explanation of the fine carriage that had 
driven up to the door on Wednesday afternoon, and of the 
beautiful lady who had seemed so disappointed to find Miss 
Maclean out. 

When the same equipage disappeared with Mona on 
Monday morning, and Mrs. O’Connor had leisure to reflect 
on the apparent finality of this departure, in the light of the 
alternate high spirits and profound depression which had 
not altogether escaped her observation, she came to the con- 
clusion that Miss Maclean was meditating a good match, but 
that she did not quite know her own mind. 


THE N^ERODAL. 


31 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HiERODAL. 

“ Don’t talk to me of ‘ kariols ’ and { stolkjaerres,’ ” said 
Sir Douglas hotly. “ I never got such an infernal shaking 
in my life.” 

Mona laughed. “ Do you know,” she said, “I imagine 
that 4 kariols ’ and f stolkjaerres ’ have done more to make or 
mar Norway than all its mountains and fjords. They are 
so picturesque and characteristic, and they make up so neat- 
ly into wooden toys and silver ornaments. Scenery and 
sunsets are all very well, but it is amazing how grown-up 
children love to carry home a piece of cake from the party, 
and in this case the piece of cake serves as an excellent ad- 
vertisement.” 

“ Fill your pockets with cake by all means, but let us 
have more substantial diet while we are here. You girls 
may do as you like ; for the future, Maud and I travel in a 
calesch.” 

They were all sitting on the grassy mounds and hillocks 
near the edge of the precipice, above the Nserodal at Stal- 
heim. 

The air was full of the fragrance of spicy herbs and 
shrubs, and the ceaseless buzz of insects in the mellow sun- 
shine could be heard above the distant unvarying roar of the 
waterfalls. 

In front lay the “ narrow valley,” bounded on either side 
by a range of barren, precipitous hills, half lost in shadow, 
half glowing in purple and gold. Some thousand feet be- 
low, like a white scar, lay the river, spanned by tiny bridges 
over which horses and vehicles crawled like flies. Behind, 
the pretty, gimcrack hotel raised its insolent little gables in 
the midst of the great solitude ; and beyond that, hills and 
mountains rose and fell like an endless series of mighty 
billows. 

Lady Munro was leaning back in a hammock chair, half 
asleep over her novel; Sir Douglas puffed at his fragrant 
cigar, and protested intermittently against all the hardships 
he had been called upon to endure ; Evelyn, with the con- 
scientiousness of an intelligent schoolgirl, was sketching the 


32 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Naerodal ; and Mona leaned idly against a hillock, her hands 
clasped behind her head, her face for the moment a picture 
of absolute rest and satisfaction. 

“ Why don’t they bring the coffee ? ” said Lady Munro, 
stifling a yawn. “ Evelyn, do go and inquire about it, do ! ” 

“ It has not been served on the verandah yet,” said Eve- 
lyn, without looking up from her work, “ and you know they 
are not likely to neglect us.” 

“ No, indeed,” said Mona. “ I can assure you it is a 
great privilege to poor little insignificant me to travel in 
such company. I have long known that the god of hotel- 
keepers all over the world is the hot-tempered, exacting, 
free-handed Englishman. I used to think it a base super- 
stition, but now that I have all the privileges of a satellite, 
I see that it is a wise and beneficent worship.” 

“You pert little minx! ’’said Sir Douglas, trying to 
control the twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

“ And I have also learned,” continued Mona, unabashed, 
looking at her aunt, “ that a fascinating manner of languid 
dignity, mingled with a subtle Anglo-Indian imperiousness, 
is worth a whole fortune in ‘ tips.’ I mean to cultivate a 
far-off imitation of it.” 

“ Mona, you are too bad ! ” Lady Munro had become 
much attached to her niece, but she never felt quite sure of 
her even now. 

“My own belief is,” said Evelyn, dreamily, “that the 
respect with which we are treated is due entirely to Nub- 
boo.” 

“ Well, he does give an air of distinction to the party, I 
confess,” Mona answered. “ When he is on the box of the 
calesch I shall feel that nothing more is required of me.” 

At this moment a stolid, fair-haired girl, in picturesque 
Norwegian dress, appeared with a tray of cups and saucers, 
and Nubboo followed with the coffee. There was a per- 
petual dispute between them as to who should perform this 
office. Each considered the other a most officious meddler, 
and they ended, not very amicably, by sharing the duty be- 
tween them. 

“ What a jumble you are making of the world ! ” laughed 
Mona, as she watched the retreating figures. “ How do you 
reconcile it with your sense of the fitting to bring together 
types like those ? A century hence there will be no black, 


THE NiERODAL. 


33 


no white ; humanity will all be uniformly, hideously, com- 
monplacely yellow ! ” 

“ God forbid ! ” ejaculated Sir Douglas, with orthodox 
social horror of the half-caste. “ Who the deuce taught 
these people to make coffee ? ” 

“ I am sure we have reason to know,” sighed his wife, 
“ that it is impossible to teach people to make coffee.” 

“ Nascitur non fit f I suppose so, but it is curious — in 
a savage nation ; ” and he drank the coffee slowly and ap- 
preciatively, with the air of a professional wine-taster. 

Mona rose, put her cup on the rustic table, and looked 
at Evelyn’s painting. “ Wie gehfs ? ” she said, laying her 
hand caressingly on the girl’s shoulder. 

“ If only the shadows would stand still ! Mona, you are 
very lazy. Do come and draw. See, I’ve two sketch- blocks, 
and no end of brushes.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mona. “ Let me really succeed with a Dies 
Irce, or a Transfiguration, and then I shall think of attack- 
ing the Naerodal.” 

Evelyn raised her blue eyes. “ Don’t be cutting, please,” 
she said, quietly. 

“ And why not, pray, if it amuses me and does you no 
harm ? In the insolent superiority of youth, must you 
needs dock one of the few privileges of crabbed age ? My 
dear,” she went on, seating herself again, “ when I had 
reached the mature age of twelve I planned a great historic 
painting, The Death of William II. I took a pillow, tied a 
string some inches from one end, and round the kingly 
neck, thus roughly indicated, I fastened my own babyish 
merino cape, which was to do duty for the regal mantle. I 
threw my model violently on the floor to make the folds of 
the cape fall hap-hazard, and then with infinite pains I pro- 
ceeded to make them a great deal more haphazard than the 
fall had done. To tell the truth, the size and cut of the 
garment were such that I might almost as well have tried to 
get folds in a collar.” 

“ No great feat,” said Sir Douglas, ruefully, “ if it came 
from a Norwegian laundry ! Well ?” 

Mona laughed sympathetically. “ On the same principle 
I studiously arranged my head and arms on the dressing- 
table before the glass to look as if I had fallen from my 
horse, and I studied the attitude till I flattered myself that 
3 


34 


MONA MACLEAN. 


I could draw it from memory. But the legs and the nether 
garments — there lay the rub ! Heigh-ho, Evelyn, you need 
not grudge me my cheap cynicism as a solatium for the loss 
of the excitement that kept me awake making plans for 
hours at night, and the passionate eagerness with which I 
prosecuted my researches by day — between the boards of 
Collier’s 4 British History ’ ! ” 

“ But the picture,” asked Sir Douglas ; “ does it sur- 
vive ? ” 

“Alas, no! Hot even as an unfinished fragment. A 
laburnum-tree and two rose-bushes in the garden repre- 
sented the New Forest, and I never watched any one leave 
the room without making a mental study of Wat Tyler dis- 
appearing among the trees. But the royal legs and nether 
garments were too great a responsibility.” 

“ Why on earth didn’t you get some one to lie on the 
floor as a model ? ” 

Mona’s face assumed an expression of horror. 

“ You don’t suppose I spoke to any one of my picture ! 
I was worlds too shy. Is that all you know of the diffidence 
of genius ? ” 

44 1 expect it was a very clever picture,” said Lady 
Munro, admiringly. 

44 My dear aunt, I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye 
now, and, although 4 the past will always win a glory from 
its being far,’ I cannot flatter myself that there is an atom 
of talent in that picture. There is not a strong line in it. 
I had plenty of resource, but no facility.” 

44 It must have been a great disappointment to you to 
leave it unfinished at last.” 

44 Oh dear, no ! I believe the difficulty of the legs would 
have been surmounted in the long-run somehow, but I sud- 
denly discovered that the true secret of happiness lay in 
novel- writing. I spent the one penny I possessed at the 
moment on a note-book, and set to work.” 

44 What was the title?” asked Evelyn, who had some 
thoughts of writing a novel herself. 

44 4 Jack’s First Sixpence,’ ” said Mona, solemnly. 

44 And the plot — ?” asked Sir Douglas. 

44 — narrows itself naturally, as you will see, to what he 
did with the sixpence. I believe ” — Mona’s lips quivered, 
and her eyes brimmed over with laughter, but she still spoke 


THE NJERODAL. 


35 


with great solemnity — “that after much reflection he de- 
posited it in the missionary-box. I clearly see, on looking 
back, that my budding originality found more congenial 
scope in art than in literature.” 

“ And did that get finished ? ” asked Evelyn. 

“ It did — in the long-run ; but it had a narrow escape. 
I had written some twelve pages, when I suddenly thought 
of a title for a new story. My next penny went on another 
note-book, and I wrote on the first page — 

‘ The Bantam Coch and the Speckled Hen : 

A Story. 

By 

Mona Maclean .’ 

It looked very well, but for the life of me I could get no 
further. To this day I have never had one idea in my head 
on the subject of that bantam cock and speckled hen. So 
I was forced to return to commonplace Jack ; and a year 
later, when I went to school, the second note-book was filled 
up with four hundred dates, which I duly committed to 
memory. What a glorious thing education is ! ” 

She sprang to her feet, ashamed of having talked so 
much, and was glad that the tardy arrival of the post from 
Yossevangen formed a natural interruption to her reminis- 
cences. The portier brought out a bundle of Indian letters 
and papers for Sir Douglas, and a letter for Mona in Lucy’s 
handwriting. It “ brought her down to earth with a run,” 
as she candidly informed the writer a fortnight later, and 
she put it in her pocket with a frown. It was not pleasant 
to be reminded of a commonplace, sneering, workaday 
world beyond the hills and the sunshine. 

“ Nothing for me ! ” exclaimed Evelyn. “ Maria and 
Annette promised faithfully to answer my letters by re- 
turn.” 

“ I don’t think they’ve had time even for that,” said 
Mona. “ The Norwegians pride themselves on their facili- 
ties for posting letters, but you must not expect a reply ! ” 
Sir Douglas went indoors to read and answer his let- 
ters in comfort, Evelyn proceeded diligently with her paint- 
ing, and Mona announced her intention of going for a 
walk. 


36 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I cannot rest,” she said, “ till I have explored that path 
that runs like a belt round the hills to the Jordalsnut. I 
shall be back in plenty of time for supper.” 

“ My dear Mona ! ” exclaimed her aunt. “ It looks 
dreadfully dangerous. You must not think of it. A foot- 
path half-way down a precipice ! ” 

“It must be a horse-track,” said Mona, “or we should 
not see it so distinctly from here. Certainly the least I owe 
you is not to run into any unnecessary danger ; and I assure 
you, you may trust me. Do you see that cottage at the end 
of the path close to the Jordalsnut? When I get there, I 
will wave my large silk handkerchief. Perhaps you will 
see it if you are still here. Au revoir /” She kissed her 
aunt’s dainty ringed hand, and set oif at a good walking 
pace. 

She had already made inquiry respecting the shortest 
way to the Jordalsnut, and she found it now without much 
difficulty. For half a mile or so it lay along the beaten 
road, and then turned off into the fields. From these, she 
passed into a straggling copse of stunted trees and tangled 
undergrowth, and emerged suddenly and unexpectedly on 
the brink of a deep gorge. Away down below, brawled and 
tumbled a foaming swollen tributary of the river, and Mona 
saw, with some uneasiness, that a plank without any kind 
of handrail did duty for a bridge. 

“ Now’s your chance, my dear girl,” she said ; “ if you 
mean to keep your head in a case of life and death, or in a 
big operation — keep it now ! ” 

She gave herself a second to make up her mind — not 
another in which to think better of it — and then walked 
steadily across. 

“ After all, there was no danger for anybody one degree 
removed from an idiot,” she said, with characteristic con- 
tempt for an achievement the moment it had passed from 
the region of posse into that of esse. 

But it was with renewed energy that she climbed the 
opposite side of the gorge and mounted the steep stony 
path that brought her out on the open hillside. Now that 
she was actually among them, the mountains towered about 
her in awful silence. The sky above and the river below 
seemed alike distant. The sun had gone down, and she 
stood there all alone in the midst of barren immensity. 


THE NiERODAL. 37 

She took off her hat, tossed back the hair from her heated 
forehead, and laughed softly. 

But she was only now at the beginning of the walk she 
had planned, and there was no time to lose. The path was, 
as she had thought, a horse-track, and the walk involved no 
danger, so long as one did not too entirely lose sight of 
one’s footing in the grandeur of the surroundings. Once 
she was almost startled by the sudden appearance of a man 
a few yards in front of her, a visitor at the hotel, probably, 
for he lifted his hat as he passed. 

“ Of all the hundreds who are passing through Stalheim 
to-day,” she thought, “ only one takes the trouble to come 
along here, out of the eternal rush of kariols. What do 
they come to Norway for?” 

Every step of the walk was keen enjoyment. She had 
never allowed herself to get out of touch with nature. 
“ The ‘ man ’ shall not 4 perceive it die away,’ ” she had said 
in the confidence of youth. “Nature is jealous, I know, 
but she shall receive no cause of offence from me. She was 
my first friend, and she shall be my last.” 

She reached the tiny homestead she had seen from Stal- 
heim, and she waved her handkerchief for some minutes, 
looking in vain for an answering signal. She was very near 
the Jordalsnut now, but to her great disappointment she 
found herself separated from it by a yawning valley which 
it was quite impossible to cross. The path by which she 
had come was continued along the hillside into this valley, 
turning upon itself almost at right angles. 

“ It’s clear I shall get nowhere near the dear old round- 
head to-night,” she said, “ but I may be able to see at least 
how the path reaches it ultimately.” 

She walked on for some time, however, without coming 
to any turning, and her spirits began to flag. The whole 
scene had changed within the last half-hour. The air was 
damp ; poor-looking, half-grown trees concealed the view ; 
and the ground was covered with long, dank grass. 

“ I suppose I must turn,” she said regretfully. “ I will 
take five minutes’ rest, and then be off home.” 

She seated herself on a great mossy boulder, and sud- 
denly bethought herself of Lucy’s letter. The familiar 
handwriting and words looked strangely out of place in 
this dreary solitude. 


38 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ My dear Mona, — P erhaps you would like to know 
what I did when I read your letter. I sat on the floor and 
hoivled! Not with laughter,— don’t flatter yourself that 
your witticisms had anything to do with it. They only 
added insult to injury. Don’t imagine either that I mean 
to argue with you. It is impossible to influence you when 
your decision is right j and when it is wrong , one might as 
well reason with a mule. The idea ! I told father you 
would walk through the examination in J anuary and take 
your final M.B., when I did. It once or twice crossed my 
mind with horror that you might content yourself with a 
Scotch 4 Triple,’ or even a beggarly L.S.A. ; but that you 
would be insane enough to chuck the whole thing, never so 
much as entered my head. It is too absurd. Because, as 
you are pleased to say, you have thrown three or four years 
of your life to the pigs and whistles, is that any reason why 
you should throw a fifth ? 

“ And have you really the conceit to suppose that you 
would make a good barmaid — a profession that requires in- 
born talent and careful cultivation ? Can you flirt a little 
bit, may I ask ? Could you flirt if your life depended on it ? 
Would anything ever teach you to flirt ? Personally I take 
the liberty of doubting it. I suppose you think improving 
conversation and scientific witticisms will do equally well, 
or better ? — will amuse the men, and improve them at the 
same time ? Gott bewahre ! 

44 Do you consider yourself even qualified to he a linen- 
draper’s shop-girl ? Are you in the habit of submitting to 
the whims and caprices of every Tom, Dick, and Harry 
who confers on you the favour of bargaining with you for a 
good penny’s- worth ? Is it possible you do not realise the 
extent to which you have always been — to use a metaphor 
of your own — the positively electrified object in the field ? — 
how we have all meekly turned a negative side to you, and 
have revenged ourselves by being positive to the rest of the 
world ? Can you hope to be a comfort even to your cousin ? 
Do you think she will enjoy being snubbed if she calls 
things 4 stylish ’ or 4 genteel ’ ? Do you imagine that 4 Even- 
ings with the Microscope ’ will fill the place of a comfort- 
able gossip about village nothings and nonentities ? 

44 Oh Mona, my friend, my wonderful, beautiful Mona, 
don’t be an abject idiot ! Write to your cousin that you 


A SON OF ANAK. 39 

have been a fool, and let us see your dear face in October. 
How is the School to get along without you ? 

“ In any case, darling, write to me, and that right soon. 
Why did you not tell me more about the Munros ? The 
idea of dangling such a delicious morsel as Sir Douglas be- 
fore my eyes for a moment, only to withdraw him again ! 
How could you tantalise me so ? You know hot-tempered, 
military old Anglo-Indians are my Schwarmerei , &c., &c., 
&c.” 


Mona laughed, but her eyes were full of tears. She was 
not seriously moved by Lucy’s letter, but it depressed her 
sadly, and suggested food for much reflection. She sat for 
a long time, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed 
absently on the page before her. Suddenly the sharp rap 
of a raindrop on the paper brought her to a recollection of 
her surroundings, and she started to her feet in alarm. It 
had grown strangely dark. She could see the mist gather- 
ing even through the trees, and the rain was evidently com- 
ing on in earnest. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A SON OF ANAK. 

When she emerged into the comparative light and 
openness of the Naerodal, she found, as she had feared, that 
the mist was creeping rapidly down the hillsides. It was 
raining heavily, and she must soon be enveloped in a thick, 
wet cloud. 

“ I am an abject idiot, as you say, Lucy,” she said, “ but 
it was mainly your fault this time.” 

She hurried along in breathless haste, but she was soon 
obliged to slacken her pace. Although the path was safe 
enough, it was broken away in some places, and already she 
could scarcely see a yard in front of her. 

“ I don’t mind the open hillside,” she gasped, “ but how 
I am to get across an invisible plank, with an invisible tor- 
rent roaring down below, heaven alone knows ! ” 

And indeed she did mind the open hillside very much. 


40 


MONA MACLEAN. 


In the clear daylight she had fancied herself half-way be- 
tween earth and sky; now she was standing on a single 
square yard of stony ground in a universe of nothingness. 

“ It is simply impossible that I can find my way through 
that wood,” she went on, becoming almost calm from very 
despair. “ It was a pure chance that I took the right path 
when the sun was shining.” 

She had serious thoughts of deliberately spending the 
night on the hillside, and even sat down for a few minutes 
on a dripping stone ; but her clothes were soaked through, 
and her teeth chattered with cold, so she was forced to go on. 

“Shall I shout?” she thought. “No, I never shouted 
or screamed in my life, and I don’t mean to begin now.” 
But she knew well that she would have shouted eagerly 
enough, if there had been the faintest chance of her being 
heard. It was useless to shout to the mists and the barren 
hills. 

Then for the first time it occurred to her that her uncle 
would send out a search-party ; but, after the first rush of 
relief, this seemed the worst fate of all. Anything would 
be better than all that fuss and disturbance. It would be 
too humiliating to provide food for days of exaggerated 
gossip in the hotel, to be constrained with much penitence 
to curtail or forego her solitary walks. And it might all 
have been so easily avoided if she had had her wits about 
her. “ Oh, Lucy, I am an abject idiot ! ” she groaned. 

At this moment she fancied she heard a step on the 
stones some distance behind her. Yes, there was no doubt 
of it. Some one was coming. Uncertain whether to be re- 
lieved or more alarmed than before, she stood still, her heart 
beating fast. The steps drew nearer and nearer. It was 
horrible to feel a presence so close at hand, and to strain her 
eyes in vain. In another moment a broad, ruddy, reassur- 
ing face looked down at her like the sun through the mist, 
and she drew a long breath of relief. 

“Bless my soul!” the owner of the face exclaimed, 
aghast at finding a young girl in such a dangerous situa- 
tion, “ you don’t mean to say you are alone ? ” 

“ Yes,” laughed Mona. But the laugh was a very un- 
certain one, and revealed much that she would rather have 
kept to herself. 

“ Well, I am glad I have found you,” he went on, shak- 


A SON OF ANAK. 


41 


ing a shower of water from his dripping straw hat. “ I 
shouldn’t like to think my sister was out here alone on a 
night like this. Won’t you take my arm? I’m afraid you 
are very tired, and. it can’t be easy to walk with your dress 
clinging to you so.” 

Mona’s cheek flushed, but she was glad to take his arm. 
His tall, sturdy, t weeded figure belied the boyish, beardless 
face, and seemed like a tower of strength. 

“ You have had a soaking,” he went on, with a sort of 
brotherly frankness which it was impossible to resent. “ So 
have I, but knickerbockers adapt themselves better to un- 
toward circumstances than your things. Am I walking too 

“Not a bit. I need not tell you that I shall be glad to 
get home.” 

They both laughed at the equivocal compliment. 

“ Were you afraid? ” he asked presently. 

“ Dreadfully,” said Mona simply. “ In fact,” she added 
after a pause, “ I am ashamed now to think how unnerved 
I allowed myself to get.” 

“ Why ! You had some cause. Few men would have 
strictly enjoyed the situation. How far had you gone?” 

“ I don’t quite know. About a mile round the corner, I 
think. I was among the trees and did not notice the mist. 
By the way — did you get to the Jordalsnut?” 

“ No, I left my portmanteau at the inn, and started with 
that intention ; but I went in for a bit of scrambling on 
this side of the valley, and then the mist drove me home. 
I am very glad it drove me to your assistance — not but what 
you would have got on all right without me.” 

“ I can’t tell you how glad I am. I really don’t know 
what I should have done,” and she raised her eyes to his 
with a frank look of gratitude. 

He started, almost imperceptibly. There was a curious 
charm in that honest un-selfconscious glance, but there was 
something more than that. 

“You are not travelling alone, are you?” he asked, 
after a minute’s silence. 

“ No, I am with my uncle and aunt. Sir Doug — my 
uncle usually walks with me, — not that I think a chance 
accident like this is any argument against my going about 
alone if I choose.” 


! 


42 


MONA MACLEAN. 


There was no answer. He was looking at her in an in- 
terested way, as if meditating the question profoundly. 

“ Please don’t tell any one you found me in extremis ,” 
she went on ; “ it would be too great a disappointment to 
be obliged to give up my solitary walks.” 

“ How can I tell any one what is not true ? ” he said, re- 
covering himself. “ I did not find you in extremis at all. 
I did not even know you were frightened till you laughed. 
You looked at me with such dignified self-assurance when 
I hove in sight that I was more than half inclined to lift 
my hat and pass on.” 

Mona laughed incredulously. 

They trudged on for a time in silence. Once she looked 
up and found his eyes fixed on her face with an expression 
of amusement. “ It is very odd,” he said, finding himself 
caught. 

“ What is?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know — the whole thing.” 

He broke into a quiet laugh, and Mona joined in it from 
sympathy. He was a curious creature, this son of Anak, 
whose broad, glistening face gleamed at her so benevolently 
through the mist. 

“ Have you been long at Stalheim ? ” he asked. 

“ Only a few days.” 

“ Is the hotel good ? ” 

“ Ye-e-s. This part of Norway is in an awkward transi- 
tion stage between the primitive inn and the cosmopolitan 
hotel.” 

“ Are there many tourists?” 

“ Oh yes ! They go rushing through by hundreds every 
day. They stop to smoke a cigar, eat a dinner, or sleep for 
a night, and then join the mad chase of kariols again. They 
are noisy, too ; my uncle gets quite indignant at the way 
they clatter about the wooden floors in their heavy boots, 
and shout their private affairs up-stairs and down-stairs, or 
from the verandah to the road.” 

“ I suppose he does,” and the son of Anak laughed again. 

The mist was beginning to clear by slow degrees when 
they came to the crest of the abrupt descent that led to the 
torrent. 

“ I can’t tell you how I was dreading this part of the 
way,” said Mona. 


A SON OF ANAK. 


43 


‘‘Were you? Well, I must say it is a case where two 
are better than one. See, I will go first and hold out my 
hands behind me.” 

They got across in safety, and in a wonderfully short 
time found themselves on the road. 

“Don’t you find it very dull here in the evening?” he 
asked. 

“ No. But I can imagine any one would who was accus- 
tomed to being amused.” 

“ You sit on the verandah, I suppose?” 

“ Not on the one overlooking the Nserodal. There is 
such a crowd there. W e get one of the others to ourselves, 
and enjoy a cup of coffee, and a chat, or a quiet rubber.” 

“ Now do get off those wet things instantly,” he said as 
they drew near the house, “ and promise me that you will 
have a glass of hot toddy or something equivalent. That’s 
right ! ” — interrupting her thanks — “ don’t stand there for 
a moment. I shall take the liberty of presenting myself on 
the verandah after supper.” 

Mona ran up-stairs with a smile, but his last words had 
caused her some alarm. What sort of reception might he 
look for on the verandah? Lady Munro was considered 
extremely “ exclusive ” ; and as for Sir Douglas, he classified 
the male tourists broadly as “ counter jumpers,” and was in- 
dignant if they so much as looked at his niece and daughter. 
If her friend got a chance to speak for himself nobody 
could fail to see that he was a gentleman, and in that case 
all would be well ; but Sir Douglas was hasty, and not likely 
to welcome advances from a complete stranger. 

“The fact is, I ought not to have hob-a-nobbed with 
him so,” she said. “ I need not have let my gratitude and 
relief run away with me. It is all my own fault. Yes, 
Lucy, I am an abject idiot ! ” 

“ Oh, I am so glad to see you,” cried Evelyn as Mona 
entered the room the cousins shared ; “ in another minute 
I should have told Mother.” 

“ Where is aunt Maud ? ” 

“She came in not long after you left, and has been 
asleep all the afternoon, so there was no one to tell Father. 
I should have gone to him in another minute. I have been 
so miserable.” 

“ Plucky little soul ! And she has actually had the stove 


44 


MONA MACLEAN. 


lighted ! I shall he dry in no time. Luckily, the mist is 
clearing every minute.” 

“ My Etna will be boiling directly, and I have got wine 
to make you some negus. Oh, Mona, do make haste ! What 
a state you are in ! ” 

Mona hastily exchanged her dripping clothes for a 
comfortable dressing-gown, and after wringing out her 
long hair, she seated herself by the stove, sipping her 
negus. 

“ You must have been in fearful danger ; I have imagined 
such things ! ” 

“ Mot a bit. A son of Anak came to my rescue ; but 
more of that anon. Get me out some clean things, like a 
darling.” 

“ What dress will you wear ? ” 

“ Which of my evening gowns has my maid laid out ? ” 
laughed Mona. “Ah, the delaine. Curious the partiality 
she shows for that delaine ! Now tell me exactly how much 
time I have. I don’t want to lose a moment of this dolce 



She was not late. The bell rang just as she was fasten- 
ing her brooch. 

“ Got back, Mona ? ” said Lady Munro, emerging fresh 
and fragrant from her room. 

“ Yes, thank you.” But before Mona had time to say 
more, Lady Munro turned to speak to Sir Douglas. It was 
impossible to begin a long story then. 

The sudden change in the weather had induced many of 
the tourists to stay on, so the large dining-room was crowded. 
Mona just caught a glimpse of the son of Anak at the oppo- 
site end of another table, and she attempted once more to 
give a modified account of her afternoon’s adventure. But 
the fates were against her. A well-known Edinburgh pro- 
fessor was sitting opposite Sir Douglas, and the conversation 
became general. 

“ Let us hope he will give me five minutes’ grace on the 
verandah,” she said resignedly ; but she had just remarked, 
by way of introduction, that the mist had almost entirely 
cleared, and Sir Douglas was in the act of lighting his first 
cigar, when the door opened, and her friend strode in with 
an air of infinite assurance. 


A SON OF ANAK. 


45 


“ Aunt Maud,” she began, but her voice was drowned in 
a general exclamation. 

“ Why, Sahib ! ” “ Dickinson Sahib ! Where on earth 
did you drop from ? ” “ What a delightful surprise ! ” 

“ Who would have thought of seeing you here ? Sit down 
and tell us all about it. Oh, I forgot — Mr. Dickinson, my 
niece, Miss Maclean.” 

“ I was sure of it,” exclaimed the new-comer, shaking 
hands cordially with the astonished Mona. “ If I had met 
her in the wilds of Arabia, I could have sworn that she was 
a relative of Lady Munro’s.” And then the whole story 
came out, with modifications. 

“Well, I must say/’ said Mona, when the questioning 
and explanations were over, “ that you have treated me ex- 
tremely badly.” 

He laughed like a schoolboy. “ I am sure you don’t 
grudge me my very small joke.” 

“ No — especially as it makes us quits. Now we can begin 
a new page.” 

“ I hope it may prove as pleasant as the first.” 

“ Prettily said, Sahib,” said Lady Munro. “ Now, be 
sensible and give us an account of your eccentric move- 
ments.” 

“ Eccentric ! ” he said, meditating a far-fetched compli- 
ment, but he was a sensible man and thought better of it. 
“ That’s easily done. One of my Scotch visits fell through 
— a death in the house — so I ran over here for a few days. 
I thought I should probably run against you — they say 
people always do meet in Norway. Of course, I knew you 
had sailed to Bergen.” 

“ And what is your route now ? ” 

“ Is it for you to ask me that, as the filing said to the 
magnet ? ” 

Sir Douglas went in search of maps and guide-books, and 
Mr. Dickinson took a low chair beside Lady Munro. 

“ I need not ask if you are enjoying your tour,” he said. 
“ You are looking famously.” 

“ Oh yes, I think this primitive world quite charming, 
and the air is so bracing ! You have no idea what a pedes- 
trian I have become. When Mona and my husband go off 
on break-neck excursions, Evelyn and I walk for hours — the 
whole day long nearly.” 


46 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona looked up hastily. She had never heard of these 
wonderful walks ; but her eyes met Evelyn’s, and her ques- 
tion died on her lips. 

“And Sir Douglas?” asked Mr. Dickinson. 

Lady Munro laughed, a low sweet laugh. “ Oh, of course, 
he always grumbles ; he says he has lived on roast leather 
and boiled flannel ever since we came. But he is enjoying 
himself immensely. It is a great thing for him to have 
Mona’s company, as indeed it is for all of us. I am afraid 
she finds us dreadfully stupid. You have no idea what 
books she reads.” 

“ At the present moment,” said Mona, gravely, “ I am 
reading Moths.” 

Everybody laughed. 

“ Then you are meditating a cutting critique,” said her 
aunt. 

“ I am reading the book simply and entirely for amuse- 
ment,” said Mona. “ I am getting a little tired of ormolu 
and marqueterie, but one can’t have everything one 
wants.” 

“But you don’t really care for Ouida?” said the Sahib 
seriously. 

Mona sighed. “ If you force me to be critical,” she 
said, “ I do prefer sunlight, moonlight, or even glaring gas- 
light. Ouida takes one into a dark room, and, through a 
hole in the shutter, she flashes a brilliant gleam of light 
that never was on sea or land. But what then ? She is a 
very clever woman, and she knows how to set about telling 
a story. One admires her power and esprit , one skips her 
vulgar descriptions, and one lets her morality alone.” 

Lady Munro laughed rather uneasily. She would not 
have owned to any man that she read Ouida, and Mona 
puzzled her. 

“ After all, the child has been so buried in her studies,” 
she thought, “ that she knows nothing of the world. She 
will learn not to say risque things to men, and, fortunately, 
it is only the Sahib.” 

Sir Douglas returned, and the conversation resolved it- 
self into a discussion of routes and steamers. 

“ I will not sleep again at that horrid noisy Voss,” he 
said. “We must lunch and change horses there, and get on 
to Eide the same night.” 


A SON OF ANAK. 47 

“ Can you be ready to start at eight ? ” said the Sahib to 
Lady Munro. 

“ Oh dear, yes ! I am up every morning hours before 
that.” 

Sir Douglas laughed cynically. 

“ Who is Mr. Dickinson ? ” said Mona, when she and 
Evelyn had retired to their room. 

“ Deputy-Commissioner of — I always forget the name of 
the place.” 

“ Never mind. Boggley Wallah will do equally well for 
me. And why do they call him Sahib ? I thought every- 
body was a Sahib ? ” 

“ His family call him that for a joke, and it has stuck 
somehow. It was because he was very young when he got 
some appointment or other.” 

“ He looks a mere boy now.” 

“ I think he is thirty- three.” 

“ I wish you would not tell him that I am a medical 
student ; I don’t feel that I have done credit to my cloth. 
I should not like him to think medical women were 
muffs.” 

“ Oh, Mona, I do wish you would not be a medical wom- 
an, as you call it. Why don’t you marry ? ” 

“ ‘ Nobody axed me, sir, she said.’ At least nobody 
that I call anybody.” 

“ If you would go out to India, somebody would ask you 
every week of your life.” 

“ Thanks. Even that is not absolutely my ideal of 
blessedness.” 

“ But you don’t want to be an old maid ? ” 

“ That expression is never heard now outside the walls 
of a ladies’ boarding-school,” said Mona, severely. “ Oh, 
my dear, at the romantic age of seventeen you cannot even 
imagine how much I prize my liberty ; how many plans I 
have in my head that no married woman could carry out. 
It seems to me that the unmarried woman is distinctly hav- 
ing her innings just now. She has all the advantages of 
being a woman, and most of the advantages of being a man. 
I don’t see how it can last. Let her make hay while the 
sun shines. 


‘ Ergreife die Gelegenheit ! Sie kehret niemals wieder.’ ” 


48 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Well, I know I should be very disappointed, if I 
thought I should never have little children of my own.” 

“ 0 Maternity, what crimes are perpetrated in thy 
name ! Mothering is woman’s work without a doubt, but 
she does not need to have children of her own in order to do 
it. You dear little soul ! Never mind me. I wish you as 
many as you will wish for yourself when the time comes, 
and a sweet little mother they will have ! ” 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

BONS CAMARADES. 


“ Nonsekse ! ” 

“ Fact, my dear fellow ! I knew it before I knew her, or 
I simply should never have believed it. It’s an awful 
shock to one’s theories, don’t you know ? — one’s views of 
womanliness and all that sort of thing. I have thought 
about it till I am tired, and I can’t make it out ; but upon 
my soul, Dickinson, you may say what you like, the girl’s a 
brick.” 

“ I’m quite sure of that already, and I’m sure she’s clever 
enough for anything.” 

“ Oh — clever, yes ! But clever women don’t need to — 
but there ! I can’t go into all that again. I simply give 
the subject up. Don’t mention it to me again.” 

“ But you know I am a staunch believer in women doc- 
1 tors. When my sister was so ill, the doctor at the station 
said she would be an invalid for life, and a staff surgeon 
who was passing through said the same. As a last resource 
I got a woman doctor to come a hundred miles to see her, 
and she brought Lena round in a few weeks. She knew 
her business, but — she was very different from Miss Mac- 
lean.” 

“Wasn’t she? That’s just it! Oh, I know they’re a 
necessary evil. I should like to see a man doctor look at 
my Evelyn, except for a sore throat or a cut finger ! I have 
always upheld the principle, in spite of the sacrifice in- 


BONS CAMARADES. 


49 


volved ; but how could I tell that any of my own woman- 
kind would take it up ? You see, she was left so much to 
her own resources, poor child ! There was no one to warn 
her of what it all meant. I reproach myself now for not 
having looked after her more ; but how on earth could I 
know that she was going to turn out anything in particu- 
lar ? Gad ! Dickinson, when I think of all that girl must 
know, it makes me sick — sick ; but when I am speaking to 
her — upon my soul, I don’t believe it has done her a bit of 
harm ! ” 

The entrance of Mona and Evelyn into the sunny 
breakfast-room interrupted the conversation for a moment, 
and it was presently resumed in a lighter and more frivo- 
lous vein over the trout and the coffee. 

“ Oh, trout, yes ! ” said Sir Douglas. “ I never said any- 
thing against the trout. If it were not for that, we should 
all be reduced to skin and bone. Evelyn, where is your 
mother ? ” 

It was eight o’clock, and the calesch stood at the door, 
when Lady Munro appeared, serene and smiling ; and then 
Evelyn and Mona had to hurry away and pack her valise 
for her. 

“ You know I’ve been up for hours,” she said, with a 
charming nod to the Sahib, as she seated herself at the 
table, “ but I began to write some letters — ” 

“ Humph ! ” said Sir Douglas, and shrugging his shoul- 
ders, he abruptly left the room. 

When the tardy valise was at last roped on to the ca- 
lesch, and the portier was opening the door, the young Nor- 
wegian landlady came up shyly to Lady Munro. 

“ Will you haf ?” she said in her pretty broken English, 
holding out a large photograph of the hotel, with its staff 
on the doorstep. 

Never had Lady Munro smiled more sweetly. 

“ Is that really for me ? How very kind ! I cannot tell 
you how much I shall prize it as a memento of a charming 
visit. Why, I can recognise all of you ! ” and she looked 
round at the worshipping servants. 

A minute later they drove off in state, with Nubboo en- 
throned on the box in front, and Dickinson Sahib following 
on in a kariol behind. 

It was a glorious summer morning. Not a trace of mist 
4 


50 


MONA MACLEAN. 


or cloud lingered about the hillsides ; the Nasrodal was once 
more asleep in sunshine and shadow. 

“ Well, I am sure we shall not soon forget Stalheim,” 
said Lady Munro. “ It has been quite a new experi- 
ence.” 

“ Quite,” agreed Sir Douglas. “ It has been an abso- 
lutely new experience to me to see a hard-worked horse go 
up a hen’s ladder to bed, with only a bundle of hay for sup- 
per, and never a touch from his groom. It is astonishing 
what plucky little beasts they are in spite of it.” 

“ Now, don’t enjoy the scenery too much,” said the 
Sahib, driving up alongside. “You have been over this 
ground before, and human nature cannot go on enjoying 
keenly all day long. Save yourselves for the afternoon. 
The drive from Voss t<y Eiae is one of the finest things in 
Norway.” 

And so it proved. For the first few miles after they 
left Yossevangen, they drove through pine-woods and drip- 
ping cliffs, where every tiny ledge had its own tuft of luxu- 
riant mosses ; and then suddenly, at full speed, they began 
the descent to the sea-level. 

“ How dreadfully dangerous ! ” exclaimed Lady Munro. 

“ As good as a switchback,” laughed Evelyn. 

“ What engineers those fellows must be ! ” said Sir Doug- 
las admiringly, as every turn brought them in sight of the 
two great waterfalls, and their faces were drenched with 
spray. 

“ It is like going round and round the inside of a mighty 
chalice,” said Mona. 

And so it was ; but the sides of the chalice were one liv- 
ing mass of the most glorious green, almost every square 
yard of which would have made a picture by itself. 

When they reached the bottom, the driver suddenly dis- 
mounted, and proceeded to occupy himself with a piece of 
string and the weather-beaten straps that did duty for 
traces. 

“ Harness — broke ! ” he said calmly. 

“ The deuce it has ! ” exclaimed Sir Douglas. “ I think 
you might have found that out at the top of the hill. Do 
you suppose our necks are of no more value than your own ? 
Nubboo, just see that it is all right now.” 

“ How horrible’! ” and Lady Munro shuddered. 


BONS CAMARADES. 


51 


Nubboo delivered a lengthy report in his native language, 
and Sir Douglas shrugged his shoulders resignedly. 

“ We must just chance it,” he said. “ I daresay it will 
be all right.” 

“ How horrible ! ” repeated Lady Munro. 

But they reached Eide without further accident, although 
rain fell steadily during the last hour of the drive. 

It is the pleasant and primitive practice at Eide, espe- 
cially in rainy weather, for the visitors to assemble in the large 
entrance-hall and verandah to watch the arrival of new- 
comers. 

“ If the show had been got up expressly for their bene- 
fit, and they had duly paid for their seats, they could not 
stare more frankly, could they?” laughed the Sahib, as he 
helped the ladies out of the calesch. “ There is not an 
’ atom of concealment about it.” 

“ Great privilege for us, upon my soul, to afford so much 
entertainment ! ” growled Sir Douglas. 

“ W on’t you come for a turn in the garden before you 
go up-stairs ? ” the Sahib asked Mona, when the question of 
rooms had been settled. “ We have five minutes to spare 
before supper, and there is a fine view of the fjord.” 

“ But alack ! what a change after dear, rugged old Stal- 
heim ! ” she said, as they strolled down to the water’s edge. 
“ This might almost be an Interlaken garden.” 

“ Quite tropical, isn’t it ? But look at the fjord ! ” 

It spread out before them in a soft, hazy golden light, 
and the tiny waves broke gently on the steps at their feet. 

Mona’s face kindled. She did not think it necessary to 
speak. 

“ And yet,” she said a minute later, “ it is a cruel fjord. 
It is going to take us back to civilisation again.” And then 
she could scarcely repress a laugh. “ Civilisation indeed ! 
Civilisation in a small shop at Borrowness.” 

He looked at her quickly. Did she repent of the life- 
work she had chosen ? 

“ In the stores of your knowledge,” he asked presently, 
his eyes on the hills, “do you include geology?” 

“Among the rags and tags of my information,” she 
replied, “ I do not.” “ Oh, Sir Douglas, Sir Douglas,” she 
thought, “ you faithless knight ! ” 

“ I seem to have put my foot in it,” he thought vaguely, 


52 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ but I cannot imagine how.” And so he proceeded to do 
it again. 

“ They have a lot of quaint old silver rings at the hotel,” 
he said, as they turned back, “and other ancient Norwegian 
curios. I should like your opinion of them. Are you an 
authority on the subject ? ” 

“ Far from it,” she said. “ But I should like very much 
to see them, and to compare the things I like with the 
things I ought to like. Pray,” she added, with an expression 
of almost childlike entreaty, “ don’t let any one persuade 
you that I am a learned woman. I wish with all my heart 
that I were, but I’m not, and I can’t bear to feel like a 
hypocrite.” 

“ I don’t think any one will ever take you for that” he 
said, smiling. 

“ I suppose it must be my own fault,” she went on, with 
curious impulsiveness, not heeding his remark. “ I suppose 
my manner is dogmatic and priggish. But what can I do ? 
When I am interested in a subject, I can’t stop to think 
about my manner.” 

“ If I might venture to advise,” he said, “ I should cer- 
tainly say, 4 Don’t attempt it.’ ” 

The next day they sailed for Odde. The fjord was smooth 
as glass, and every hamlet and tree on the peaceful hillsides 
was reflected in the water. It was a day for dreaming rather 
than for talking, and they scarcely spoke, save when each 
bay and gorge brought into view a fresh sjDur of the mighty 
glacier. 

Early in the afternoon they reached Odde, beautiful Od- 
de ! — lying close to the edge of the fjord, embraced by the 
wooded hills, with pretty yachts and steamers at anchor in 
its bay, and the glacier looking coldly down from the great 
ice-sea above. 

“ We might almost be in England again,” said Lady 
Munro, as they sat at lunch in the dining-room of the Har- 
danger. 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Sir Douglas. 44 Civilised notions, 
half-a-dozen people in the place that one knows, two — ac- 
tually two — shops, and dinners ! Evelyn, you had better 
take a kariol and a tiger, and go shopping on the Boule- 
vard ! ” 


BONS CAMARADES. 53 

“ I was just going to ask for your purse,” said Evelyn 
calmly ; “ there are no end of things that I want to buy.” 

Finally, they betook themselves to the shops en famUle, 
and a scene of reckless expenditure ensued. Sir Douglas 
heaped presents on the “ girls,” as he called Mona and Eve- 
lyn, and Lady Munro seemed to be in a fair way to buy up 
the whole shop. 

“ These old silver things are so pretty,” she said, child- 
ishly. 

“ And, at worst, they will do for bazaars,” added Evelyn. 

The saleswoman became more and more gracious. She 
had considerable experience in serving tourists who, with 
reminiscences of a previous summer in Switzerland or Italy, 
offered her “ a pound for the lot,” and her manner had ac- 
quired some asperity in consequence ; but she quickly adapt- 
ed herself to the people with whom she had to deal. 

Mona watched her with a curious interest and fellow- 
feeling. “ I ought to be picking up hints,” she thought, 
with a smile. “ I certainly might have a much worse 
teacher.” 

“ Let me see. That’s eleven and a half kroner,” said a 
showy-looking man, taking a handful of gold and silver 
from his pocket. “ I’ll give you ten shillings.” 

No answer. 

“ Will you take ten shillings ? ” 

“ No, sir,” very quietly. 

He frowned. “ Eleven shillings ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ What do you throw off ? ” 

“ Not — anything, sir,” in slow but very unmistakable 
English. 

He flounced out of the shop, leaving the things lying on 
the counter. 

Not a muscle of the young woman’s face changed, as 
she quietly returned the pretty toys to their place on the 
shelves. 

“ Brava ! ” said Mona to herself. 

“ A penny for your thoughts, Mona dear,” said Evelyn’s 
quiet voice a minute later. “ Mr. Dickinson has asked you 
twice how you like this old chatelaine. He wants to buy it 
for his sister.” 

Mona laughed and blushed. 


54 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ My thoughts are worth more than a penny,” she said, 
— “ to me at least.” In point of fact, she was wondering 
whether it would be a part of her duty to say “ Sir ” and 
“ Madam ” to her customers at Borrowness. 

In the course of the afternoon the Munros met a num- 
ber of friends and acquaintances, and the next few days 
passed gaily away in excursions of all kinds. Night after 
night the party came home, sunburnt and stiff, but not too 
tired to enjoy a bright discussion across the pleasant dinner- 
table. There was nothing very profound about these con- 
versations. Everybody had toiled and climbed enough dur- 
ing the day. Now they were content to fly lightly from crag 
to crag over a towering difficulty, or to cross a yawning prob- 
lem on a rainbow bridge. 

But after all, they were happy, and the world was not 
waiting in suspense for their conclusions. 

Sunday morning came round all too soon, and on Mon- 
day the Munros were to sail for Bergen. Mona was sitting 
alone on the verandah, watching the people coming to 
church. The fjord lay sparkling in the sunshine, and from 
every hamlet and homestead along the coast, as far as the 
eye could reach, boats were setting out for Odde. As they 
drew in to the pier, the voluminous white sleeves, stiff halo- 
like caps, and brilliant scarlet bodices, made a pretty fore- 
ground of light and colour in the landscape. 

But in the midst of her enjoyment Mona drew a long, 
deep, heartfelt sigh. 

A little later Evelyn joined her. “ I have been looking 
for you everywhere, Mona,” she said. “ Mr. Dickinson has 
set his heart on going to the Buarbrae glacier to-day. The 
others all went before we came, and I think it would be 
insane to tire ourselves the last day. Father says he has not 
got over that ‘ Skedaddle ’ waterfall yet. You don’t care to 
go, do you ? ” 

Mona’s eyes were still fixed on the fjord. 

“ Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die,” she said, 
half absently. “ I will go with all the pleasure in life.” 

“ Don’t be profane, Mona. You are the queerest, clever- 
est girl that ever lived.” 

Mona laughed. “ I don’t consider that I am queer,” she 
said ; “ I have good reason to know that I’m not clever, and 
all the world can see that I am not a girl. Otherwise, your 


BONS CAMARADES. 


55 


description is correct. My compliments to the Sahib, and, if 
it please his Majesty to take me, I shall be only too glad to go.” 

“No doubt it will please his Majesty. You should hear 
how he speaks to mother about you. You will soon be on 
a par with that wonderful sister of his. I think he talks 
too much about his sister, don’t you ? ” 

“ No. He is among friends. I don’t suppose he would 
do it in a scoffing world. Evelyn, dear, there is no use tell- 
ing you not to grow cynical. W e all do in this used-up age. 
Cheap, shallow, cynical talk is the shibboleth of the mo- 
ment, and, if we are at all sensitive, it is a necessary armour. 
But don’t carry it into your immediate circle. In heaven’s 
name, let us live frankly and simply at home, or life will 
indeed be apples of Sodom.” 

Evelyn looked rather blank. She did not know very 
well what all this meant, and still less could she see what it 
had to do with Mr. Dickinson’s sister. But she felt rebuked, 
and the words lingered in her memory. 

In five minutes more the Sahib and Mona set off. 

“ What magnificent training you are in ! ” he said, ad- 
miringly, as he watched her lithe young figure mount the 
hill at his side. “ Your walking has improved immensely 
in the last week.” 

“Yes, one does get rather flabby towards the end of 
term, in spite of such specifics as tennis. But I don’t think 
the circumstances of our first meeting were very conducive 
to a just estimate of my powers.” 

They both laughed at the recollection. 

“ What an age ago that seems ! ” he said. 

“ I am sorry the time has dragged so heavily.” 

“ Nay. The difficulty is to believe that ten days ago I 
did not know you. Now turn and look behind.” 

The village had sunk picturesquely into the perspective 
of the landscape. Beside them the river surged down over 
the rocks and boulders to the fjord, and the sound of church 
bells came through the still summer air. 

“ This is better than being in church,” he said. 

“ Much ; — especially when one understands nothing of 
what is going on. But I am glad I have seen a Norwegian 
service. It is so simple and primitive, and besides ” — she 
laughed — “ I have a mental picture now of Kjelland’s Mor- 
ten Kruse.” 


56 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I do go to church as a rule,” he said. “ In India I 
consider it a duty.” 

Mona raised her eyebrows. “ I go to church as a rule, 
too,” she said. “ But it never occurred to me to look upon 
it in the light of duty.” 

“ Don’t you think that in that, as in other things, one 
has to think of one’s neighbours ? ” 

“ I can’t bear the word ‘ duty ’ in such a connection. It 
seems to me, too, that the Spirit of Praise and Prayer blow- 
eth where it listeth. One cannot command it with mathe- 
matical precision at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. 
The Spirit of Praise comes when one is alone in a w r orld like 
this. I think we lose our individuality when there is noth- 
ing human near to remind us of it, and become as much a 
part of this great throbbing glorying Nature as the trees 
and the grass are.” 

“ And the Spirit of Prayer ? ” 

Mona smiled. 

“ The story of that,” she said, “ is written on each 
man’s white stone.” 

“And yet, if most people act on that principle,” he said, 
“ they are a little apt to lose the Spirit of Praise and Prayer 
altogether. Don’t you think so?” 

Mona did not answer the question for a moment. Then 
she met the eyes that were fixed on her face. “ Yes,” she 
said frankly, “ I do.” 

They walked on for a few minutes in silence. 

“ And may I ask what you do go to church for ? ” he 
said at last. “ Don’t answer if I take a liberty in asking.” 

“ You don’t at all ; but it is a little difficult to say. I 
believe I go to church in order to get some one to think 
beautiful thoughts for me. When one’s life is busy with 
work that takes all one’s brain power, there is little en- 
ergy left with which to think beautiful thoughts. One 
loses sight of the ideal in the actual. I go to church in 
order to keep hold of it. If I were a seamstress I should 
probably go out among the hills on Sunday morning and 
think my beautiful thoughts for myself.” 

“ You make it, in fact, a question of the division of 
labour. We are to buy our beautiful thoughts ready-made 
as we buy our boots, because a complicated state of society 
leaves us no time to make them.” 


BONS CAMARADES. 


57 


“Precisely; and yet we are not exactly to buy them 
ready-made. I think it is Robertson who says that a 
thought is of no use to us, however beautiful, unless it is in 
a sense our own, — unless it makes us feel that we have been 
groping round it unconsciously, and all but grasping it. 
We cry ‘ Eureka’ when a beautiful thought strikes home, 
and we become aware for the first time that we have been 
in search of something. The moral of all this is, that our 
priest or preacher must be a man with a mind akin to our 
own, moving on the same plane, but if possible with a 
wider radius. This granted, his sect and creed are matters 
of infinitely little moment.” 

“ But it seems to me that books would serve your pur- 
pose as well as sermons.” 

“ They serve the same purpose,” she said ; “ but I am a 
strong believer in mesmeric influence, in the force of per- 
sonality. Other things being equal, a voice impresses me 
much more than a printed page. Oh, I don’t place ser- 
mons in a unique position by any means, or even sermons 
and books. It is very much a question of keeping 4 a bor- 
der of pinks round the potato-patch.’ All the endless 
things that open up our horizon might be classed together ; 
they would differ only as to the direction in which they 
open up the horizon. It is quite true in one sense that I 
go to church for the same reason that I go to the theatre — 
to keep myself from getting worldly ; but a good sermon — 
I say a good sermon — has a more direct bearing on the ordi- 
nary affairs of life. In fact, it helps us to see not only the 
ideal, but, as I said before, the ideal in the actual.” 

“ I think I see what you mean, although theatres are not 
commonly supposed to serve the purpose of keeping one un- 
spotted from the world.” 

“ It seems to me that one can get worldly over every- 
thing, from ballet-dancing to sweeping a room, if one does 
not see beyond it. There is another side to the ‘ trivial 
round, the common task’ question, true and beautiful as 
Keble’s poem is. Worldliness seems to me to be entirely a 
question of getting into a rut.” 

“ All you say is very fine,” he said ; “ but, with the curi- 
ous provincialism of a Londoner — seen from the Anglo- 
Indian point of view — you are assuming that one has an 
unlimited number of preachers from whom to choose. 


58 


MONA MACLEAN. 


What would you do if you were thrown back on one poor 
specimen of the 4 fag end of the clergy ’ ? ” 

Mona raised her eyes in surprise. 

“ I should never dream of going to church at all,” she said, 
44 unless there was something to be gained from the service.” 

44 And suppose you were in India, where the lives of the 
English do not exactly tend to bear out the teaching of the 
missionaries ? ” 

44 1 should remember that it must be very poor teaching 
which would be borne out by hypocrisy on my part.” 

44 You would not go for the sake of example?” 

44 Most assuredly not. I don’t believe in conscious in- 
fluence.” 

They had come in sight of the Sandven-vand, and the 
little steamer stood at the pier. There were several other 
passengers on deck, so further conversation was impossible 
till they reached the other side. Then they made their 
way through the quaint, old village, and up the bank of the 
river towards the glacier. Already it was in full view. 
Wooded hills closed in the valley on either side, and right 
in front of them the outlet was blocked, as it were, by a 
glowing, dazzling mountain of ice, snow-white under the 
cloudless blue sky. 

44 Oh, I am so glad we came ! ” And all the light from 
sky and glacier seemed reflected in Mona’s face. 

44 Niclit wahr!” he said, well pleased. 44 1 was sure it 
would be worth while.” 

Presently the view was hidden, as they passed under the 
trees that overarched the river. 

44 In fact,” he said suddenly, as if the conversation had 
never been interrupted, 44 you don’t believe in letting your 
light shine before men ? ” 

44 That I do ! ” she answered, warmly. 44 1 believe in 
letting a clear, steady, unvarying light fall alike on the evil 
and the good. I do not believe in running hysterically 
round with a farthing dip into every nook and cranny 
where we think some one may be guided by it.” 

44 You are severe,” he said quietly. 

44 Forgive me !” said Mona. 44 In truth, it is the meta- 
phor that is too heavy for me : Fools and firearms — 4 the 
proverb is something musty.’ Let me choose a weapon 
that I can use, and you will see what I mean. 


BONS CAMARADES. 


59 


“ Let ns say that each man’s life is a garden, which he is 
called upon to cultivate to the best of his ability. Which 
do you think will do it best — the man who, regardless of 
how his garden looks from the road, works honestly and 
systematically, taking each bed in its turn ; or the man who 
constantly says, 4 A. will be coming down the high road to- 
day ; I must see that the rose-bed is in good condition : or, 
B. will be looking over the hedge, I must get that turnip- 
patch weeded,’ and so on?” 

It was some time before he answered. 

“ I think you are a little one-sided, if you will excuse 
my saying so.” 

“ Please don’t talk like that. How could I help being 
grateful for an honest opinion? — the more unlike my own, 
the better for me. Was I dogmatic again ? Please re- 
member that, whatever I say, I am feeling after the truth 
all the time.” 

He looked at her, smiling. 

“ But such as your metaphor is, let us carry it a little bit 
farther. Let us suppose that your garden is laid out in 
a land where the soil is poor and the people are starving. 
You know of a vegetable which would abundantly repay 
the trouble of cultivation, and would make all the difference 
between starvation and comparative comfort; but no one 
will believe in it. We will suppose that you yourself have 
ample means of livelihood, and are not dependent on any 
such thing. Would you not, nevertheless, sacrifice the 
symmetry of your flower-beds and grow my imaginary 
vegetable, if only to convince ‘ A. who comes down the high 
road, and B. who looks over the hedge,’ that starvation is 
needless ? ” 

Mona smiled and held out her hand. 

“ Well said ! ” she cried cordially. “ A good answer, and 
given with my own clumsy weapon. I admit that I would 
try to exercise ‘ conscious influence ’ in the very rare cases 
in which I felt called upon to be a reformer. But I am 
glad that is not required of me in the matter of church- 
going.” 

“ And the whole, wide, puzzling subject of Compromise ? ” 
he said. “ Is there nothing in that ? ” 

Mona’s face became very grave. “ Yes,” she said, “ there 
is a great deal in that — though I believe, as some one says, 


60 


MONA MACLEAN. 


that we studiously refrain from hurting people in the first 
instance, only to hurt them doubly and trebly when the 
time comes — there is a great deal in the puzzling subject of 
Compromise ; but it has not come much into my life. 
There has been no one to care — ” 

Suddenly she laughed again and changed the subject 
abruptly. 

“ It is so odd,” she said, “ so natural, so like our human- 
ity, that we should argue like this — you in favour of con- 
scious influence, I against it — and I make not the smallest 
doubt that your life is incomparably simpler, franker, more 
straightforward than mine.” 

“ That I do not believe,” he said emphatically. 

She looked at him with interest. 

“ I suppose you really don’t. I suppose you are quite 
unconscious of being a moral Antiseptic ? ” 

“ A tvhat f ” he asked with pretended horror. “ It doesn’t 
sound very nice.” 

“Doesn’t it? I should think it must be rather nice to 
make the world sweeter, sounder, wholesomer, simply by 
being one’s self.” 

“ Miss Maclean — you are very kind ! ” 

“ I wish I could say the same of you ! I call it most un- 
kind to make that conventional remark in response to a 
simple and candid statement of a fact.” 

“ It was not conventional. I meant it. It is most kind 
of a man’s friends to give expression now and then to the 
good things they think about him. One almost wonders 
why they do it so seldom. The world is ready enough to 
give him the other side of the question. The truth is — I 
was thinking how very difficult it would be to formulate a 
definition of you.” 

Mona put her fingers in her ears with unaffected alarm. 

“ Oh, please don’t,” she said. “ That would be a mean 
revenge indeed. It is one thing to say frankly the thought 
that is in our mind, and quite another to go afield in search 
of our opinion of a friend. There is a crude brutality about 
the latter process.” 

“ True,” he said. “ And I did not mean to attempt it. 
In fact, I should not dream of pigeon-holing you.” 

“ You are unkind to-day. Did I deny that you were fifty 
other things besides an Antiseptic ? and may not an Anti- 


BONS CAMARADES. 


61 


septic have fifty other chemical properties even more im- 
portant than that one ? Who talks of pigeon-holing ? ” 

“You must have the last word, I see.” 

“ Womanlike ! ” she said, pretending to sneer. 

“ W omanlike ! ” he repeated mischievously. 

“ And now, pray note that I have presented you with 
the last word. Any woman could answer that taunt. In- 
stead, I inquire what that shanty on the hill is ? ” 

“ That shanty, as you are pleased to call it, is the hotel 
and restaurant of the place. Shall we have lunch now, or 
after we have been on the glacier ? ” 

“ Oh, after ! I cannot rest until I have felt the solid 
ice under my feet.” 

This proved to be no very easy achievement ; but after a 
good deal of climbing, Mona’s ambition was realised. Then 
they scrambled down to watch the water surging out from 
under the deep blue arches ; and at last, tired and di- 
shevelled, they betook themselves to the inn. 

“ I hope you are as hungry as I am,” he said with the 
old boyish manner, “ and I hope we shall find something 
we can eat.” 

The “ shanty ” w r as clean and airy, with well-scoured 
floors, but the remains of lunch on the table certainly did 
not look very inviting, — a few transparent slices of Gruy£re 
cheese, which seemed to have been all holes, some uninterest- 
ing-looking biscuits, and doubtful sausage. 

“ Have you coffee and eggs ? ” asked the Sahib. “ Ah— 
that will do, won’t it ? ” 

“ Coffee and eggs are food for the gods,” said Mona. 

“ Or would be, if they did not spoil their appetites with 
nectar and ambrosia,” he corrected ; and they laughed and 
talked over the impromptu meal like a couple of children. 

“ How many ladies are there studying medicine just 
now ? ” asked the Sahib as they walked slowly homewards. 

« Women ? I don’t quite know. About a hundred in 
the country, I should think.” 

« And what do the— I am afraid I had almost said the 
stronger sex— say to this infringement of their imagined 

rights ? ” . 

Mona looked at his stalwart, athletic figure. 

“ Pray don’t apologise for calling them the stronger sex 
to me,” she said, laughing. “ I am not at all disposed to 


62 


MONA MACLEAN. 


try my strength against yours. Oh, of course there was 
immense opposition at first. That is matter of history now. 
But it would be difficult to exaggerate the kindness and 
helpfulness of most of the younger men ; and a few of the 
older ones have been heroes all along.” 

“ That is a ‘ good hearing.’ Then do you think it could 
all have been managed without opposition, by dint of a little 
waiting ? ” 

“ That I don’t ! ” she answered warmly. “ The first 
women, who were determined not merely to creep in them- 
selves but to open up the way for others, must have suffered 
obloquy and persecution from all but the very few, at any 
time. If the lives of a little band of women — I had almost 
said if the life of one woman — could be blotted out, I won- 
der how many of us would have the courage to stand where 
we now do ? It is a pretty and a wonderful sight, perhaps, 
to see a band of young girls treading the uphill path and 
singing as they go. ‘ How easy it is,’ they say, 4 and how 
sweet we make it with our flowers ! ’ Ho doubt they do, 
and heaven bless them for it ! But it has always seemed to 
me that the bit of eternal work was the making of the road.” 

She spoke with so much earnestness that the Sahib was 
almost uneasy. 

“ That is more than true,” he said warmly. “ It is the 
working of a universal principle. You know,” he added 
shyly, “ if you ivere going to take to a public life, I wonder 
you did not think of the platform.” 

“ The platform ! ” Mona laughed merrily. “ If you 
put me on the platform with an audience in front of me, I 
should do what a fellow-student tells me she did on receipt 
of my last letter — c sit on the floor and howl.’ ” 

They both laughed. This anti-climax brought them 
comfortably down to everyday life again, and they talked 
about pleasant nothings for the rest of the way. 

“ Look here, Dickinson,” said Sir Douglas, when they en- 
tered the hotel, “ I won’t have you walking off with Mona 
for a whole day together. She is my property. Do you 
hear ? ” 

“ I am sure it was I who discovered her on the hillside.” 

Mona held up her finger protestingly. 

Oh, I am Sir Douglas’s invention, without a doubt,” 
she said, putting her hand affectionately within her uncle’s 


BONS CAMARADES. 


63 


arm ; “ you only rediscovered me accidentally. What a pity 
it is that every great invention cannot speak for itself and 
give honest men their due ! ” 

The Sahib was very silent as he sat in the smoking-room 
that evening* He held a newspaper before him, for he did 
not wish to be disturbed ; but he was not reading. 

In India he was looked upon almost as a woman-hater, 
so little did he care for the society of the young girls who 
came out there ; and Mona’s “ cleverness ” and culture, her 
earnest views of life, and the indefinable charm of manner 
which reminded him of Lady Munro, had all combined to 
make his short friendship with her a very genuine pleasure. 
Already he found himself thinking half-a-dozen times a day, 
“ I wonder what Miss Maclean would say about this,” or “I 
shall ask Miss Maclean her opinion of that ” ; and yet what a 
curious girl she was ! It was a new experience to him to be 
told by an attractive young woman that he was a “ moral 
Antiseptic ” ; and, in short, she puzzled him. Women al- 
ways are a terra incognita to men, as men are to women, as 
indeed every individual soul is to every other ; but it might 
have been well for both of them if the Sahib could have 
read Mona at that moment even as well as she read him. 
He would have seen that she looked upon him precisely as 
she looked upon the women w r ho were her friends ; that it 
never occurred to her that he was man, and she woman, and 
that nothing more was required for the enaction of the time- 
worn drama ; that, although she had taken no school-girl 
vow against matrimony, the idea of it had never seriously 
occupied her mind, so full was that mind of other thoughts 
and plans. He would have seen that the excitement and 
enthusiasm of adolescence had taken with her the form of 
an earnest determination to live to some good purpose ; and 
that the thousand tastes and fancies, which had grouped 
themselves around this central determination, were not al- 
lowed seriously to usurp its place for a moment. 

But he did not see. He could only infer, and guess, 
and wonder. 


64 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER IX. 

DOKIS. 

The steamer was fast approaching Newcastle. 

They had had some very rough weather, but now the sea 
was like a mill-pond, and the whole party was sitting on 
deck under an awning. 

“ Well, Mona dear,” said Lady Munro, “ I am sure I 
don’t know how we are to say good-bye to you.” 

“Don't!” entreated Mona. “You make me feel that 
I must find words in which to thank you, and indeed I 
can’t ! ” 

Her sensitive lips quivered, and Sir Douglas uttered a 
sympathetic grunt. 

“ You really must spend a month with us on the Riviera 
at Christmas,” went on her aunt. “ We will take no re- 
fusal.” 

“ Do ! ” said Evelyn, putting her arm round her cousin’s 
waist. 

“ Thank you very much,” and Mona’s eyes looked elo- 
quent thanks ; “ but it is quite out of the question.” 

“ I have put my hand to the plough,” she thought, “ and 
I don’t mean to look back. Six months it shall be, at the 
very least.” 

“ And what is a month,” growled Sir Douglas, “ when 
we want her altogether? I am afraid I promised that her 
incomings and outgoings should be without let or hindrance 
as heretofore — old fool that I was ! — but how could I tell 
how indispensable she was going to make herself ? ” 

“ I wish you would not talk so,” said Mona. “ I have 
never in all my life been so disgracefully spoilt as during 
the last fortnight. I should get simply unbearable if I lived 
with you much longer.” 

“ The fact is,” continued Sir Douglas, looking at his 
wife, “ the greatest mistake of our married life has been 
that Mona did not come to us ten years ago, when your 
mother died.” 

“ I don’t fancy Mona thinks so,” said Lady Munro, smil- 
ing at her niece. 

“No,” said Mona, and the slight flush on her cheek 


DORIS. 


65 


showed that her frankness cost her an effort. “ It is good 
for a man to bear the yoke in his youth. If I had not 
known hardship sometimes, and loneliness often, I could 
not have appreciated as I have done the infinite enjoyment 
of the last fortnight.” 

“ The fact is, you bear the yoke a deal too much,” said 
her uncle. “ Bless my soul ! you’re only a girl yet, and you 
can only be young once. And now you are going to mope, 
mope, mope, over your books.” 

“You know I am going to my cousin in the first in- 
stance.” 

“ Yes — for a few weeks, I suppose ! By the way, can’t 
you get out of that ? I am sure we want you a great deal 
more than she does.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mona, hastily. “ I can’t get out of that 
even if I wished to.” 

“ If you were cut out for a common drudge, I should 
not mind,” he went on ; “ but with your gifts — Do you 
know, there is nothing to hinder your being a great social 
success ? ” 

“ Oh, indeed there is ! ” exclaimed Mona. “ You have 
made me very happy, and I have shown my gratitude by 
forgetting my own existence, and talking a great deal too 
much. But when my friends want to show me off, and beg 
me to talk — with the best will in the world, I seem unable 
to utter a word.” 

“ No wonder, when you live the life of a hermit. But 
if you gave your mind to it — ” 

Mona opened her lips to speak, and then thought better 
of it. There was no need to say that, at the best, social 
success seemed a poor thing to give one’s mind to ; attract- 
ive enough, no doubt, so long as it was unattained; but 
when attained, as the sole result of years of effort, nothing 
but Dead Sea fruit. 

Sir Douglas got up and offered her his arm without 
speaking. They walked up and down the deck together. 

“ Where are your cigars?” she said. “I am sure you 
want one.” 

“ I don’t,” he said irritably. “ I want you.” But he 
allowed her to get one out of his case for him neverthe- 
less. 

“ And now, Mona,” he said more amiably, “ I want you 

5 


66 


MONA MACLEAN. 


to tell me all about your money affairs — what you have got, 
how it is invested, and who looks after it for you.” 

“ You are very kind,” she said gratefully ; “ but please 
don’t suppose I was thinking of money when I talked of 
hardship. I am quite a Croesus now. I had to be very 
careful for a year or two, while things were unsettled.” 

“And why the deuce did not you write to me? What 
did you suppose you had an uncle for ? What is the use of 
your coming to us now, when you are quite independent 
and we can do nothing for you ? ” 

Mona pressed his hand affectionately in both of hers. 

“ The use is problematical from your point of view, I 
confess, but from mine it is infinite. You have made me 
fancy myself a girl again.” 

“ And what are you but a girl ? But come along, I am 
to hear all about your money.” 

And they entered into a long and involved discussion. 

The Sahib meanwhile was looking on in a mood as nearly 
approaching ill-humour as was possible to him. If Lady 
Munro and Mona had both been available, he might have 
been in some doubt as to which he should converse with ; 
but Sir Douglas had settled the question by monopolising 
Mona, and she had become proportionately desirable in his 
eyes. He persuaded himself that he had fifty things to say 
to her on this the last day of their companionship, and he 
considered himself much aggrieved. Moreover, Mona seemed 
to be submitting to a lecture, and the docile, affectionate 
smile on her face seemed strangely attractive to the neglected 
man. 

Every moment his irritation increased, and when at last 
— with Newcastle well in sight — Mona left Sir Douglas and 
began to talk caressingly to her aunt and Evelyn, the Sa- 
hib rose abruptly from his chair and strode away. 

Mona did not notice that he had gone. She liked him 
cordially, but now that the moment of parting had come, 
her thoughts were fully occupied with her “ own people.” 

“ You will let us know of your safe arrival, won’t you ? ” 
said Lady Munro. “ I suppose you will be too busy to 
write often during the winter, and I am afraid none of us 
are very great correspondents ; but remember, we tryst you 
for next summer, if not before.” 

“ You can’t possibly get beyond Edinburgh to-night,” 


DORIS. 67 

said Sir Douglas, stopping in front of them and looking at 
his watch. 

“ I am afraid not,” said Mona. “ But I am very anx- 
ious to go straight through, if possible.” 

“ I do not know why we should not all have gone north 
together,” he continued, turning to his wife. “ Cannot we 
do it still ? Your maid can bring your boxes.” 

“ My dear Douglas ! Evelyn and I need no end of 
things before we can start on a round of visits.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his eyes re- 
signedly. 

“ Mona cannot possibly spend a night in a hotel alone,” 
he said. 

“ You dear old uncle ! You must remember I have not 
had you to take care of me all my life. But I am all right 
to-night. If I sleep in Edinburgh, it shall be with a 
friend.” 

“ What friend ? Who is she ? ” 

“ She is a grade or two below the rank of a duchess, but 
I think she will satisfy even you. Doris Colquhoun.” 

He smiled and nodded. On the whole, he was well sat- 
isfied to have a few days at his club, even if everybody was 
out of town. 

“ Well, I will at least see you safe into the train,” he 
said. 

The Sahib had expected that this duty would fall to him, 
and it was with the least possible shade of injured dignity 
that he took Mona’s proffered hand. 

“ I shall often think of our pleasant walks,” she said, 
looking up with the frank, bright smile that made her face 
beautiful. But he tried in vain to find a suitable answer, 
and merely bowed over her hand in silence. 

“ Now remember, my dear girl,” said Sir Douglas, as he 
passed the last of a series of periodicals through the window 
of the railway carriage, “ if you want anything whatever, 
write to me, or, better still, come. You do not need even to 
wire unless you want me to meet you at the station. Just get 
into the first train and walk into our quarters as if they be- 
longed to you. We are rolling stones, but, wherever we 
are, you will always find a home.” 

Mona did not answer. Her eyes were brimming over 
with tears. 


68 


MONA MACLEAN. 


The train, glided out of the station, and Sir Douglas 
watched it till it was out of sight. Then he swore roundly 
at a small newsboy who was somewhat persistent in the 
offer of his wares, and walked back to the hotel in an exe- 
crable temper towards the world in general, and towards his 
wife and daughter in particular. 

Mona was alone in the carriage, but she did not allow 
herself for one moment the luxury of dwelling on the life 
she had left behind. She dashed away her tears, and 
brought all her power of concentration to bear on the heap 
of magazines at her side. But it was hard work. Visions 
of sunlight dancing on the rippling fjord, of waterfalls 
plunging from crag to crag, of mountains looming in sol- 
emn stillness, of deep blue columns supporting a sea of ice, 
— all these lingered on the retina of her mind, as the phys- 
ical image persists after the eye is shut. 

And with them came the faces — of which she must not 
allow herself to think. 

Never, since she was a mere girl, had Mona known any lack 
of friends, — friends true and devoted ; but, in spite of mo- 
ments of curious impulsiveness, a proud reserve, which was 
half sensitiveness, had always kept even the irrepressible 
Lucy more or less at a distance. None of her friends had 
ever presumed to lay claim to any proprietorship in her, as 
Sir Douglas now did ; and perhaps because it was something 
so new and strange, his blunt kindness was more welcome 
than the refinement of tact to her sensitive nature. 

It was growing dark when the train drew into the Wa- 
verley Station. 

. “ I want to go to Borrowness,” said Mona hastilv. “ Am 
I in time for the train ? ” 

“ Borrowness,” repeated the porter meditatively, for the 
place was not one of European celebrity. “ Well, ma’am, 
it s touch and go. If you have no luggage you might man- 
age it.” 

“ You will do nothing of the kind,” said a quiet voice, 
and a neatly-gloved hand was slipped into Mona’s arm. “ I 
never heard anything more absurd.” 

u Oh, Doris ! ” exclaimed Mona. u Why did you come ? 
I told you I could only come to you if I missed the last 
tram. 

Was not that the more reason why I should come here 


DORIS. 


69 


for a glimpse of yon? I don’t get the chance so often. 
But if you think you are going on with that tired face, and 
without any dinner, you are much mistaken. Mona, I am 
surprised — you of all people ! ” 

“ If you only knew it,” said Mona resignedly, “ you are 
very unkind.” 

“ Mo, I am not. I will observe your own conditions, and 
argue about nothing. Your will shall be law ; I shall not 
even refer to your last letter unless you do. If you tell me 
that you are going to fly to the moon from the top of the 
Scott Monument, I shall merely wish you a pleasant journey. 
And indeed, dear, I am quite sure your train had gone.” 

“ Well, let me telegraph to my cousin,” said Mona with 
a sigh. 

Doris Colquhoun was not a little surprised at her easy 
victory, but in truth her friend was too worn out to argue. 

“ My own ponies shall take you out,” said Doris. “ They 
are something new since you were here, and they are such 
beauties. Do not laugh when you see my groom. Father 
hunted him out for me. He is about the size of a pepper- 
pot.” 

With a light practised hand she took the reins, the 
“ pepper-pot ” touched his hat with infinite solemnity, and 
they bowled away through the town and out into the 
suburbs. 

“ Your pepper-pot is a work of art, without doubt,” said 
Mona, “ but I fear he would not be of much use in case of 
an accident.” 

“ So Father said. But the ponies are very safe, and I 
don’t know what fear is when I am driving. Father is well 
content to gratify all my whims, so long as I hold my peace 
about the one that is more than a whim.” 

Mona did not answer. Just then they entered the ave- 
nue of a brightly-lighted house ; and, with a magnificent 
sweep, Doris brought the ponies to a standstill in front of 
the steps. 

Mona knew that here she w T as a very welcome guest, 
and when she found herself in the familiar dining-room, 
with the wood-fire crackling in the grate, and father and 
daughter quietly and unaffectedly enjoying her society, she 
felt cheered and comforted in spite of herself. 

Mr. Colquhoun was a shrewd, kind-hearted Scotch solicit- 


70 


MONA MACLEAN. 


or, or, to be more exact, a Writer to the Signet. He was a 
man of much weight in his own profession, and, in addition 
to that, he dabbled in art, and firmly believed himself to be a 
brilliant scientist manque. He was a man of a hundred lit- 
tle vanities, but his genuine goodness of heart would have 
atoned for many more grievous sins. His gentle, strong- 
willed daughter was the pride of his life. Only once, as she 
told Mona, had she made a request that he refused to grant, 
and in her devotion to him she wellnigh forgave him even 
that. 

“ Miss Maclean looks as if she would be the better of 
some sparkling wine,” said Mr. Colquhoun, and he gave an 
order to the footman. 

Mona smiled and drew a long breath. 

“ What a relief it is to be with people who know one’s 
little weaknesses ! ” she said. 

“ What a relief it is to be with people who know one 
wine from another!” he replied. “ How Doris drinks my 
Roederer dutifully, but in her heart she prefers ginger-pop! ’ ’ 

Doris protested indignantly. 

“ How don’t pretend that you are a wholesome animal,” 
said her father, looking at her with infinite pride. “ You 
like horses and dogs, that is the one human thing about you. 
By the way, did you make any sketches in Norway, Miss 
Maclean ? ” 

“ Very few. Norway was too big for me. I did some 
pretentious gcnrebilder of women in their native dress, and 
a hut with a goat browsing at the foot of a tree that grew 
on the roof.” 

“ Both goat and tree being on the roof ? ” 

“ Both goat and tree being on the roof. The tree is a 
very common feature in that situation ; the goat was some- 
what exceptional.” 

“ So I should think,” said Doris. “ I should like to see 
that sketch.” 

“ Oh, when you want to turn an honest penny,” said Mr. 
Colquhoun, “ I will give you fifty pounds for your sketch- 
book any day.” 

“ Indeed, I am sorely in want of fifty pounds at the pres- 
ent moment,” laughed Mona, “ and, regarded as a work of 
art, you might have the book for sixpence. But there is a 
sort of indecency in selling one’s diary.” 


DORIS. 


71 


“ It is not as a work of art that I want it,” he said can- 
didly, “ though there is something of that in it too. It is 
like your father’s college note-books.” He laughed at the 
recollection. “You have a knack of knowing the right 
thing to sketch, which is rare among men, and unique 
among women.” 

“ Thank you very much, hut I am afraid I never appre- 
ciate a compliment at the expense of my sex.” 

“ Then you may accept this one with an easy mind,” said 
Doris. “The hit is not at the sex, but at my pine forests 
and waterfalls.” 

“ Oh, pray do not let us get on the subject of Doris’s sex,” 
said Mr. Colquhoun. “ That is our one bone of contention.” 

“ One of a very few,” corrected Doris. 

“ I think they all reduce themselves to that.” 

“ Perhaps,” she answered gravely. 

“ And now I want to know how long you can stay with 
us, Miss Maclean. You must stay for lunch to-morrow, 
whatever happens. Some cronies of mine — scientific cro- 
nies, you know — are coming to look at a wonderful micro- 
scope I have been buying. It cost a pretty penny, I assure 
you. Professor Murray calls it the hundred-ton gun. We 
should be glad of the opinion of a lady fresh from one of 
the greatest physiological laboratories in the world.” 

A courteous refusal was on Mona’s lips, but the descrip- 
tion of the microscope sounded suspicious. She had had 
some experience of Mr. Colquhoun’s method of purchasing 
scientific articles, and guessed that he had probably given 
fifty pounds for the cumbrous antiquated instrument, when 
he might have got a simpler, more efficient one for ten. She 
was determined that the “ cronies ” should not laugh at the 
simple-hearted old man if she could help it; and if the 
opinion of a “ lady fresh from one of the greatest physio- 
logical laboratories in the world ” carried any weight, surely 
even a little perjury would be excusable in such a case. 

“ I will stay with a great deal of pleasure,” she said ; 
“ but, whatever happens, I must catch the afternoon train.” 

When the evening was at an end, the two girls went to- 
gether to Mona’s room, and for a time they gossiped about 
all sorts of trifles. 

“Well, I see you are very tired,” said Doris at length. 
“ Good night.” 


72 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona did not answer. 

“ Are you sure you have got everything you want ? Let 
me put that arm-chair under the gas. That’s right. Good 
night.” 

Still there was no answer. 

“ Have you fallen asleep already, Mona, or do you not 
mean to say good night ? ” 

“ Oh, you old humbug ! ” said Mona suddenly, pushing 
an arm-chair to the other side of the hearth, and putting 
her friend unceremoniously into it. “ Fire away, in heaven’s 
name ! Let me hear all you have to say. Now that I have 
come, I suppose we must thrash the whole thing out. I 
withdraw all my conditions. Let us have it out and get it 
over ! ” 

Doris was almost startled at her friend’s vehemence. 

“ Well, of course, you know, Mona,” she said hesitatingly, 
“ it was a great disappointment to me.” 

“ My failure ? N aturally. I did not find it exactly 
amusing myself.” 

“ I don’t mean that. 1 do not care a straw about the 
failure, except in so far as it delays the moment when you 
can begin to practise. That was the fortune of war. But 
I do think you are doing a very wrong thing now.” 

“ In what way ? ” 

“ Burying your wonderful powers in the petty life of a 
village.” 

“ Look here, Doris. I mean to give you a fair hearing, 
though it is too late to change my plans, even if I wished to, 
which I don’t ; hut suppose we drop my ‘ wonderful powers ’ ! 
I fancy that theory is played out.” 

“ All the examiners in the world could not change my 
opinion on that score. But we will not discuss the point. 
Taking you as you stand — ” 

“ Five feet five in my stockings — ” 

“ Please do not be frivolous. Taking you as you stand 
— a woman of education, culture, and refinement—” 

“ Youth, beauty, and boundless wealth — go on ! Word- 
painting is cheap.” 

“I thought you were going to give me a fair hear- 
ing?” 

“ So I will, dear. Forgive me ! ” 

“ It used to be a favourite theory of yours that ‘ every 


DORIS. 73 

man truly lives so long as he acts himself, or in any way 
makes good the faculties of himself.’ ” 

“ So it is still, now that you remind me of it. Apres ? ” 

“Oh, Mona, you know all I would say. Are you making 
good the faculties of yourself? With the most glorious 
life-work in the world opening before you — work that I 
would give all I possess to be allowed to share — you deliber- 
ately turn aside and waste six precious months among people 
who do not understand you, and who won’t appreciate you 
one bit.” 

“ I admire the expression 1 opening before me,’ when the 
examiners have twice slammed the door in my face. But, 
as you say, we won’t discuss that. You talk as if I were 
going on a mission to the Hottentots. I am only going to 
my own people. I do not suppose I am any more superior 
to my cousin Rachel than the Munros are superior to me.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“ At least you will admit that she is my blood-relation. 
You can’t deny that claim.” 

“ I can’t deny the relationship, distant though it is, but 
I do distinctly deny the claim. You know, Mona, we all 
have what are called ‘ poor relations.’ ” 

“ I suppose many of us have,” said Mona, meditatively, 
after a pause. “ You will scarcely believe it, but for the 
last three weeks I have been fancying that my position is 
unique.” 

“ Of course it is not. We are all in the same boat, more 
or less. My brother Frank says that, after mature consid- 
eration on the subject of so-called poor relations, he has 
come to the conclusion that, in ninety-nine cases out of a 
hundred, it is better to cut the connection at once and alto- 
gether.” 

Mona raised her eyebrows. “Doris Colquhoun quotes 
that?” 

The colour rose to Doris’s face, but she went on— 

“ Not because of their poverty. I do not need to tell 
you that. There are people who earn thirty pounds a-year 
t>y the sweat of their brow whom one is proud to have at 
one’s table. It is because they have different ideas, speak a 
different language, live in a different world. What can one 
do at the best ? Frank says, Spend a week in the country 
with them once a-year or so, and invite them to spend a fort- 


n 


MONA MACLEAN. 


night in town. What is the result ? They feel the differ- 
ence between themselves and you, they don’t like it, and 
they call you * snob.’ Suppose you ignore them altogether ? 
The nett result is the same. They call you 4 snob.’ The 
question is, Is it worth all the trouble and friction ? ” 

“ Doris, Doris,” said Mona, “ that is the sheerest casu- 
istry. You know no power on earth would tempt you to cut 
your own poor relations.” 

44 I don’t know. The women all happen to be particu- 
larly nice. I should not break my heart if I thought I 
should never see some of the men again.” 

“ All women are particularly nice, according to you ; no 
doubt my cousin Rachel would be included in the number. 
No, no ; tell all that to the marines ! I know you too well. 
And pray don’t preach such dangerous doctrine. It would 
be precisely the people who have risen above their relatives 
only in the vulgar externals of life who would be most 
ready to take advantage of it.” 

“ Well, I confess that I always argue the matter with 
Frank. Personally, I don’t see why one cannot be hapj)y 
and cordial when one meets one’s relations, without sacri- 
ficing one’s self to them as you are doing.” 

44 I don’t know that I am sacrificing myself. Perhaps,” 
she added suddenly with a curious smile, “ I shall acquire 
at Borrowness some personal experience in the 4 wide, puz- 
zling subject of compromise.’ ” 

44 Compromise ! ” repeated Doris. 44 Please don’t go out 
of your way for that. The magnificent thing about your 
life is that there is no occasion for compromise in it. That 
duty is reserved for people with benighted old fathers. Bor- 
rowness is somewhere near St. Rules, is it not?” 

44 Yes,” said Mona. 44 There is only the breadth of the 
county between them.” 

44 1 know some very nice people there. I shall be proud 
to give you an introduction if you like.” 

44 No, no, no, dear,” said Mona quickly. 44 My friends 
must be my cousin’s friends. Thank you very much all the 
same.” 

44 But, Mona, at the end of this miserable six months you 
will go on, won’t you ? ” 

Mona frowned. 44 1 have not the vaguest idea what I 
shall do at the end of the six months,” she said. 


DORIS. 


75 


“ You are taking your books with you?” 

“ Some old classics and German books, welter nichts .” 

“ No medical books? ” 

“ Not one.” 

Doris sighed deeply. 

“ Don’t be so unhappy, dear. I wish with all my heart 
you could be a doctor yourself.” 

“ Oh, don’t talk of that. It is no use. My father never 
will give his consent. But you know, dear, I am studying 
by proxy. I am living in your life. You must not fail me.” 

“ You talk as if suffering humanity could scarcely make 
shift to get along without me.” 

“And that is what I think, in a sense. Oh, Mona” — 
she drew a long breath, and her face crimsoned — “ it is so 
difficult to talk of it even to you. A young girl in my 
Bible-class went into the Infirmary a few weeks ago — only 
one case among many — and you should have heard what she 
told me ! Of course I know it was only routine treatment. 
It would have been the same in any hospital ; but that does 
not make it any better. She said she would rather die than 
go there again. No fate could have been worse.” 

“ Dear Doris ! don’t you think I know it all? But you 
must not say no fate could have been worse. The worst 
fate is moral wrong, and there is no moral wrong where our 
will is not concerned.” 

“ Wrong ! ” repeated Doris scornfully. “ Moral wrong ! 
Is it nothing then for a girl to lose her bloom ? ” Her face 
was burning, and her breath came fast. “ Young men,” she 
said, scarcely above a whisper, “ and all those students — mere 
boys ! It drives me mad ! ” 

Mona rose and kissed her. 

“ Dearest,” she said, “ you are the preux chevalier of your 
sex, and I love you for it with all my heart. I feel the force 
of what you say, though one learns in time to be silent, and 
not even to think of it more than need be. But indeed, you 
make yourself more unhappy than you should. Some of 
the young men of whom you speak so scornfully are truly 
scientific, and many of them have infinite kindness of 
heart.” 

“ Don’t let us talk of it. I cannot bear it. But oh, 
Mona, go on with your work — go on!” She kissed her 
friend almost passionately and left the room. 


7G 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ There goes,” thought Mona, “ a woman with a pure 
passion for an abstract cause — a woman whose shoe-latchets 
I am not worthy to unloose.” 


CHAPTER X. 

BOKKOWNESS. 

The next afternoon the grey ponies trotted Mona down 
to Granton. 

It was strange to find herself on the deck of a steamer 
once more ; the same experience as that of yesterday, and 
yet how different ! Yesterday she had been the centre of 
her little circle — admired, flattered, indulged by every one ; 
to-day she was nothing and nobody — a young woman travel- 
ling alone. And yesterday, she kept assuring herself, was 
the anomaly, the exception ; to-day was in the ordinary 
course of things — a fair average sample of life. 

It would have been strange if her thoughts had been 
very bright ones, and a heavy ground-swell on the Forth did 
not tend to make them any brighter. 

“ It’s a cross-water, ye ken,” an old countryman was ex- 
plaining to a friend. “ They say ye might cross the Atlan- 
tic, an’ no’ get onything waur.” 

The wind was chill and cutting, and it carried with it 
an easterly haar, that seemed to penetrate to Mona’s very 
marrow. She was thankful when they reached Burntisland, 
and she found herself ensconced in a dirty, uncomfortable 
third-class carriage. 

“ If Borrowness is your destination,” Mr. Colquhoun 
had said, “ it is not a question of getting there sooner or 
later ; it is a question of never getting there at all ; ” and so 
Mona began to think, as the train drew up for an indefinite 
period at every little station. And yet she was not anxious 
to hasten her arrival. The journey from Edinburgh to 
Borrowness was short and simple, compared with that 
which her mind had to make from the life behind to the 
life before. 


BORROWNESS. 


77 


“ I have no right to enter upon it in the spirit of a mar- 
tyr,” she said to herself, “ even if that would make it any 
easier. For better or worse it is all my own doing. And I 
will not dream the time away in prospects and memories. 
I will take up each day with both hands, and live it with 
all my might.” 

The twilight was beginning to gather when at length 
the guard shouted “ Borrowness ! ” and Mona sprang to her 
feet and looked out. 

It was a quiet, dreary, insignificant wayside station. A 
few men were lounging about — fisher-folk chiefly — and one 
woman. 

No, that could not be her cousin Rachel. 

During her life in London, Mona had often met an 
elderly lady whose dress was sufficiently eccentric to attract 
attention even in “ blessed Bloomsbury.” A short wincey 
skirt, a severely uncompromising cloth jacket, and a black 
mushroom hat, had formed a startling contrast to the frivoli- 
ties in vogue ; and, by some curious freak of fancy, a mental 
picture of this quaint old lady had always flashed into Mona’s 
mind when she thought of her cousin. 

But the woman on the platform was not like that. Her 
face was ruddy and good-natured, and her dress was a hide- 
ous caricature of the fashion of the year before. Every pic- 
turesque puff and characteristic excrescence was burlesqued 
to the last point compatible with recognition. Mona might 
have met fifty such women in the street, and never have 
noticed their attire ; but the hang of that skirt, the showi- 
ness of that bonnet, the general want of cut about every 
garment, as seen in that first momentary glance, were burnt 
into her recollection for a lifetime. 

“No doubt, the woman I used to meet in London was a 
duchess,” she thought a little bitterly, “ but this cannot be 
my cousin Rachel.” 

She gave an order to the porter, alighted from the car- 
riage, and waited — she scarcely knew for what. She was 
the only young woman who got out of the train there ; so 
if Rachel Simpson were anywhere in sight, she must soon 
identify her cousin by a process of exclusion. 

And so she did. 

But she did it very slowly and deliberately, for Mona 
was looking rather impressive and alarming in her neat 


78 


MONA MACLEAN. 


travelling dress, not at all unlike some of the young ladies 
who came to stay at the Towers. 

The train puffed away out of the station, and then the 
little woman came up with a curious, coy smile on her ruddy 
face, her head a little on one side, and an ill-gloved hand ex- 
tended. Mona learned afterwards that this was her cousin’s 
best company manner. 

“ Miss Maclean ? ” she said, half shyly, half familiarly. 

“Yes; I am Mona Maclean. I suppose you are my 
cousin Rachel ? ” 

They kissed each other, and then there was an awkward 
silence. 

Rachel Simpson was thinking involuntarily, with some 
satisfaction, that she had seen Mona in a third-class car- 
riage. She herself usually travelled second, and the knowl- 
edge of this gave her a grateful and much-needed sense of 
superiority, as regarded that one particular. She wondered 
vaguely whether Mona would object to having been seen 
under such disadvantageous circumstances. 

“ I suppose my luggage arrived about a fortnight ago ? ” 
said Mona, forcing herself to speak heartily. “ You were 
kind enough to say you would give it house-room. What 
shall I do about this little valise ? ” 

“ Oh, the man will bring it to-night. — Bill,” she said 
familiarly to the rough-looking porter, “ mind and bring 
that little trunk when ye gang hame.” 

“ Ay,” said the man, without touching his cap. 

Rachel Simpson was one of the many lower middle-class 
people in Scotland who talk fairly good English to their 
equals and superiors, but who, in addressing their inferiors, 
relapse at once into the vernacular. Mona greatly admired 
the pure native Scotch, and had looked forward to hearing 
it spoken ; but her cousin’s tone and accent, as she addressed 
this man, jarred on her almost unbearably. Mona was striv- 
ing hard, too, to blot out a mental picture of Lady Munro, 
as she stood on the platform at Newcastle, giving an order 
with queenly graciousness to the obsequious porter. 

The two cousins walked home together. The road was 
very wet with recent rain, and they had to pick their steps 
in a way that was not conducive to conversation ; but they 
talked eagerly about the weather, the crops, the crossing to 
Burntisland, and everything else that was most uninterest- 


BORROWNESS. 

ing. Mona had never mentioned the Munros nor her visit 
to Norway. 

In about five minutes they reached the house, and indeed 
it w r as not such a bad little house after all, opening, as it 
did, on a tiny, well-kept garden. The two windows on the 
ground-floor had of course been sacrificed to the exigencies 
of the “ shop ” ; and as they went in, Mona caught a glimpse 
of some extraordinary hats and bonnets in one window, 
and of dusty stationery and sundry small wares in the 
other. 

“ Marshall & Snelgrove and Parkins & Gotto,” she said 
to herself judicially, “ and I suppose Fortnum & Mason, are 
represented by those two wooden boxes of sweetmeats beside 
the blotting-books.” 

As they opened the glass door, the automatic shop-bell 
rang sharply, and an untidy girl looked out from the 
kitchen. 

“ It’s you,” she said briefly, and disappeared again. 

Rachel Simpson would never have dreamt of giving a 
domestic order in the hearing of a visitor, so she went into 
the kitchen, and a whispered conversation took place while 
Mona waited in the passage. The old-fashioned clock 
ticked loudly, and the air was close and redolent of rose- 
leaves and mustiness. Evidently open windows were the 
exception here, not the rule. The house seemed curiously 
far away from the beach, too, considering how small the 
town was. 

“ If I can only catch a glimpse of the sea from my bed- 
room window,” thought Mona, “I shall be happy in a 
garret.” 

But it was no garret to which her cousin presently con- 
ducted her, nor, alas ! did it command a view of the sea. It 
was a fair-sized room above the kitchen — a room filled up 
with ugly, old-fashioned furniture— and its window over- 
looked a wide prospect of cabbage-beds. 

“ Just come into the front parlour when you get off your 
things,” said Rachel, “ and we’ll have a cup of tea.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mona pleasantly, and she was left 
alone. 

She seated herself absently on a chair, and then sprang 
suddenly to her feet again. 

“ Well, you don’t suppose you are going to take stock 


80 


MONA MACLEAN. 


now” she said to herself savagely. “ Wash your hands, and 
be quick about it ! ” 

She took the liberty of opening the window first, how- 
ever. The upper sash declined to move at all, and the lower 
one slipped down again as often as she raised it. In vain 
she looked about the room for something to support it. 

“ Stay open you shall ! ” she said, “ if I put my own head 
underneath ; but I will resort to the Family Bible first,” and 
her eye rested on the substantial volume that surmounted 
the chest of drawers. 

Finally, she rolled her travelling cloak into a tight bun- 
dle, and propped up the sash with that. 

“ A little rain will do you no harm,” she said, “ and a 
little air will do this musty hole a vast deal of good.” 

She looked about for hot water, but there was none, so 
with a shiver she washed in cold. Then after a glance at 
the distorting looking-glass, to make sure that her hair was 
smooth and her expression tolerably amiable, she betook 
herself to the front parlour. 

There was no fire in the grate. There never was a fire 
in that grate while the white curtains were up from May to 
October. Rachel often indulged in the luxury of sitting by 
the kitchen fire when she was alone on a chilly evening, and 
had Mona known this she would thankfully have done the 
same ; but Rachel’s “ manners ” were her strong point, and 
she would have been horrified at the idea of suggesting such 
a thing to a comparative stranger. When Mona had really 
settled down, she could afford to be comfortable again, to 
use the old brown teapot, put away the plated spoons, and 
keep her Sunday bonnet for Sunday. 

In truth the teapot on the table was a wonderful thing, 
and Rachel glowed with pride as Mona’s eye returned to it 
incessantly ; but Mona was only thinking vaguely that she 
had never before seen one single object — and that not a very 
big one — which so absolutely succeeded in setting at defi- 
ance every canon of common decency in art. 

But all at once she thought of Rachel’s affectionate let- 
ters, and her heart smote her. This woman, with her shop 
and all her ugly surroundings, her kind heart and her vulgar 
formalities, seemed to Mona so infinitely pathetic that, tired 
and overstrained as she was, she bit her lip to keep back a 
rush of tears. 


BORROWNESS. 


81 


“ Do you know, dear,” she said warmly, “ it is very kind 
of you to have me here.” 

“Ob, I’m only too glad to have you, if you can make 
yourself happy.” 

“No fear of that. Give me a day or two to settle down, 
and I shall be as happy as a king.” 

“ Yes, it does just take a while to get used to new ways 
and new people ; but blood is thicker than water, I say. My 
niece, now, had settled down wonderfully. She knew all 
my ways, and we were so suited to each other. She was a 
great hand at the millinery, too ; I suppose that’s not much 
in your line ? ” 

Mona laughed. “ I was going to say, like the Irishman, 
that I did not know, because I had never tried,” she said ; 
“ but I do trim my own summer hats. I should enjoy it 
immensely.” “ And it will go hard with me,” she added to 
herself, “ but I shall eclipse those productions in the window.” 

“ I am afraid,” said Rachel, uneasily, “ we could not sell 
plain things like you had on. It was very nice and useful 
and that, of course, but they are all for the feathers and 
flowers here.” 

“ Oh, I should not attempt a hat like mine. It takes 
genius to do a really simple thing, don’t you think so ? ” 

Rachel laughed, uncertain whether to take the remark 
in jest or earnest. “ Well, you know,” she said, doubtfully, 
“ it is easier to cover a hat up like.” 

“Very much,” agreed Mona. 

“ And now you must make a good tea, for I am sure you 
are hungry after the journey. That’s ham and eggs in front 
of you, and this is hot buttered toast, — only plain food, j t ou 
see. I have made your tea nice and strong ; it will do you 
more good.” 

“ Farewell, sleep ! ” thought Mona, as she surveyed the 
prospect before her ; and it occurred to her that the sound 
of champagne, creaming into a shallow glass, was one of the 
most delightful things on earth. She blushed violently 
when her cousin said a moment later — 

“ I suppose you are blue-ribbon ? Everybody nearly is 
nowadays. It is wonderful how many of the gentry have 
stopped having wine on their tables. Nobody needs to have 
it now. The one thing is as genteel as the other, and it 
makes a great difference to the purse.” 


82 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“Doesn’t it?” said Mona sympathetically, thankful that 
no answer had been required to the original question. “ And 
after all,” she thought, “ when I am living a life like that of 
the cabbages at the back, what do I want with the ‘ care- 
breaking luxury ’ ? ” 

“ I hope you don’t object to the shop,” Rachel went on 
presently, a propos apparently of the idea of gentility. “ I 
don’t really need it now, and it never did very much in the 
way of business at the best ; but I have got used to the 
people dropping in, and I would miss it. And you know 
the ladies, the minister’s wife and the doctor’s wife like, they 
come in sometimes and have a cup of tea with me ; they 
don’t think me any the less genteel for keeping a shop. 
But I always tell everybody that it is not that I require to 
do it. Everybody in Borrowness knows that, and of course 
it makes a difference.” 

“ The question of ‘ gentility,’ ” said Mona with a comical 
and saving recollection of Lucy’s letter, “ seems to me to 
depend entirely on who does a thing, and the spirit in which 
it is done, not in the thing itself.” 

“ That is just it. They all know me, you see, and they 
know I am not really caring about the shop at all. Why, 
they can see that whiles I lock the door behind me and go 
away for a whole day together.” 

Mona bit her lip and did not attempt an answer this 
time. 

It was still early when she excused herself and went to 
her room. She paced up and down for a time, and then 
stopped suddenly in front of the looking-glass. It had be- 
come a habit with her, in the course of her lonely life, to 
address her own image as if it were another person. 

“ It is not that it is terrible,” she said gravely ; “ I al- 
most wish it were ; it is just that it is all so deadly common- 
place. Oh, Lucy, I am an abject idiot ! ” And like the 
heroines of the good old days, when advanced women were 
unknown, she threw herself on the great four-post bed and 
burst into a passion of tears. 

The torrent was violent but not prolonged. In a few 
minutes she threw away her handkerchief and looked scorn- 
fully at her swollen face. 

“ After all,” she said philosophically, “ I suppose a good 
howl was the cheapest way of managing the thing in the 


THE SHOP. 


83 


long-run. That will be the beginning and the end of it. 
Horst du ivohl ? — And if it so please you, Mistress Lucy, I 
don’t regret what I have done one bit, and I would do the 
same thing to-morrow.” 

She curtseyed low to the imaginary Lucy, betook herself 
to. bed, and in spite of grief, excitement, and anxiety, in 
spite of ham and egg, strong tea and hot buttered toast, she 
slept like a healthy animal till sunrise. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE SHOP. 

Ho, it was clear that nothing could be done with her 
bedroom. That was a case for pure and unmitigated en- 
durance. Mona felt thankful, as she looked round in the 
morning sunshine, that she had not brought with her any 
of the pictures and pots and artistic draperies without 
which young people find it almost impossible to travel now- 
adays. The heavy cumbrous furniture might possibly have 
been subdued into insignificance ; but any moderately aes- 
thetic colour would have been drowned in the harsh domi- 
nant note shrieked out by the old-world wall-paper. 

She adhered rigidly to her resolution that last night’s 
“ howl ” was to be the “ beginning and the end of it ” ; but 
as she leaned back on the stiff, hard pillows, her hands 
clasped behind her head, she looked the whole situation 
fairly in the face. It was not an inviting prospect by any 
means, but she was still young and enthusiastic, and resolu- 
tion was strong within her. 

“ Good workmen do good work in any sphere,” she 
thought, “ and bad workmen do bad work in any sphere. 
It lies with myself. The game is all in my own hands. 
Heaven help me!” 

“ I hope you slept well,” said her cousin, as she entered 
the parlour for breakfast. 

“ I never slept better in my life,” said Mona cordially. 

“ That’s right ! ” and Rachel, who had suffered sundry 


MONA MACLEAN. 


84 : 

qualms of doubt in the small hours of the morning, who 
had even drifted within a measurable distance of the appall- 
ing heresy that blood might not always and under all cir- 
cumstances be thicker than water, was not a little comfort- 
ed and strengthened in her old belief. It did still require 
an effort of faith to conceive that she would ever feel as 
much at her ease with Mona as she had done with her niece ; 
but then, on the other hand, Mona was so very stylish — 
“ quite the lady” ; and if she did not prove much of a hand 
at trimming bonnets, her manner was certainly cut out for 
“ standing behind the counter.” 

“Were you meaning to go out this forenoon?” asked 
Eachel. 

“ I will do whatever you like. I have not made any 
plans.” 

“ I was thinking it’s such a fine day I might go over to 
Kirkstoun — it's only a mile and a quarter from here. Mrs. 
Smith, a friend of mine there, lost her mother a few weeks 
ago, and I’ve never got to see her since. Her husband’s 
cousin was married on my sister Jane, so she won’t think it 
very neighbourly my never going near her.” 

“ How very unpleasant for Jane ! ” was Mona’s first 
thought. “ I hope her husband’s cousin was not very 
heavy ; ” but aloud she said — 

“ And you would like me to sit in the shop while you 
are away ? I will, with pleasure. It will be quite amus- 
ing.” 

“ Mo, you don’t need to sit in the shop. As like as not 
nobody will be in ; but you never can tell. You can sit at 
the window in the front parlour, and watch the people pass- 
ing, and if the bell rings you’ll be sure to hear it. If there 
does anybody come, Sally can tell you the price of anything 
you don’t know.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ Of course, I might take you with me and lock the 
door, or leave Sally to mind the shop. I’m sure Mrs. Smith 
would be delighted to see you at any other time, but she 
being in affliction like — ” 

“ Oh, of course. She would much rather have you to 
herself. Anybody would under the circumstances.” 

“ That’s just it. If the weather keeps up so that we can 
wear our best things, I’ll take you round to call on all my 


THE SHOP. 


85 


friends next week. There’s really no pleasure in it when 
you’ve to tuck up your dress and take off your waterproof 
at every door.” 

“ That is very true,” said Mona, cordially. “ There is 
no pleasure in wearing pretty things unless one can do it in 
comfort ; and when I don my best bib and tucker, I like to 
show them to advantage. I am afraid, though,” she added, 
with real regret, “ I have not got a dress you will care for 
much.” 

“Oh, I daresay you’ll do very well. The great thing is 
to look the lady.” 

They went on with breakfast in silence, but presently 
Rachel resumed — 

“ I daresay you’d like to go out on the braes, or down on 
the beach this afternoon. Now, I wonder if there is any 
one could go with you? There’s Mary Jane Anderson 
across the way ; she’s always ready to oblige me, but they’ve 
a dressmaker in the house just now.” 

“ Oh, I think we won’t trouble Miss Anderson this after- 
noon, thank you, dear. I love to explore new places for 
myself, and I will give you all my original impressions when 
I come in. I can’t tell you what a treat it is to me to live 
by the sea. I am sure I should find it company enough at 
any time.” 

“ Well, it’s a great thing to be easily pleased. My dear ” 
— Rachel hesitated — “ if anybody should come in, you won’t 
say anything about your meaning to be a doctor ? ” 

Mona was much amused. “ I should never even think of 
such a thing,” she said. “ You may depend upon me, 
Cousin Rachel, not to mention the fact to any one so long 
as I am with you.” 

They rose from the table, and after a great deal of prep- 
aration Rachel set out in her “ best things,” without fear 
of rain. 

“Mind you make yourself comfortable,” she said, re- 
opening the door after she had closed it behind her. “ I 
daresay you’ll like the rocking-chair, and you’ll find some 
bound volumes of the Sunday at Home in the parlour.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mona, “ I do like a rocking-chair 
immensely.” 

The first thing she did, however, when her cousin was 
gone, was to get half-a-dozen strong pieces of firewood from 


86 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Sally, and prop open all the windows in the house. Then 
she proceeded to make a prolonged and leisurely survey of 
the shop. 

Accustomed as she was to shopping in London, where 
the large and constant turnover, the regular “ clearing 
sales,” and the unremitting competition, combine to keep 
the goods fresh and modern, where the smallest crease or 
dust-mark on any article is a sufficient reason for a sub- 
stantial reduction in its price, she was simply appalled at 
the crushed, dusty, expensive, old-fashioned goods that 
formed the greater part of her cousin’s stock-in-trade. 

“ I shudder to think what these things may have cost to 
begin with,” she said, straightening herself up at last with 
a heavy sigh ; “ but I should like to see the person who 
would take the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, in ex- 
change for a five-pound note ! ” 

She had just come to this conclusion when the shop bell 
rang, and an elderly woman came in. 

“ Good morning,” said Mona pleasantly. 

The woman stared. She did not wish to be rude, but on 
the other hand, she did not wish to be ridiculous, and such 
gratuitous civility from a stranger, in the discharge of an 
everyday matter of business, seemed to her nothing short of 
that ; so she was silent. 

“ A yard o’ penny elastic,” she said, when she had suf- 
ficiently recovered from her surprise to speak. 

Mona bowed, and took down the box from its place on 
the shelf. 

“ If ye’ve no’ got onything better than ye had the last 
time,” continued the woman, looking suspiciously at the 
battered pasteboard box, “ I’ll no’ trouble ye. It lookit 
weel eneuch, but it a’ gaed intae bits the meenit it was 
touched.” 

Mona examined the contents of the box critically. 

“ I certainly cannot recommend this,” she said". “ It’s 
too old. We ” — she suppressed a laugh that nearly choked 
her, as she found the familiar expression on her lips — “ we 
shall be getting some in next week.” 

“ It’s twa month sin’ I got the last,” said the woman 
severely. “ It doesna seem verra business-like tae be sellin’ 
the same stuff yet.” 

“ That is true,” said Mona frankly. “ It must have 


THE SHOP. 


87 


been overlooked. I suppose there are other shops in the 
town where you can get what you want. If not, you can 
depend on getting it here this day week. Can I show you 
anything else ? ” “ Not that there is a single thing in the 
shop I can show with much satisfaction to myself,” she 
added mentally. 

The woman frowned. 

“ I want some knittin’-needles the size o’ that,” she said, 
laying a half-finished stocking on the counter. 

Mona drew a long breath of relief. Knitting-needles 
could not go bad like elastic ; and if they were rusty, she 
could rub them up with emery-paper. 

She opened the box with considerable satisfaction, but 
to her dismay she found needles of all sizes mixed up in inex- 
tricable confusion, and the bit of notched metal with which 
she had seen shopkeepers determine the size was missing. 
She knew this exacting old woman would never allow her 
to depend on her eye, and she hunted here, there, and every- 
where, in vain. She preserved her calmness outwardly, but 
her forehead was moist with anxiety, when at length, more 
by good luck than good guidance, she opened the cash- 
drawer and found in it the missing gauge. Poor Mona ! 
She experienced the same sense of relief that she had some- 
times felt in the anatomy-room, when a nerve, of which she 
had given up all hope, appeared sound and entire in her 
dissection. 

With some difficulty she found four needles of the same 
size, and wrapping them neatly in paper, she gave them to 
her customer. She was proceeding to open the door, but 
the old woman seemed to have something more to say. 

“ I aye like to gie my custom to Miss Simpson,” she 
said. “ But what like way is this tae manage ? And ye 
seem tae be new tae the business yersel’.” 

“ I am,” said Mona, “ but I am very willing to learn. 
If you will have a little patience, you will find that in time 
I shall improve.” 

She spoke with absolute sincerity. She had forgotten 
that her life stretched out beyond the limits of this narrow 
shop ; she felt herself neither more nor less than what she 
was at the moment — a very inefficient young shopkeeper. 

“ Weel, there’s nae sayin’. I’ll be back this day week 
for that elastic ; ” and Mona bowed her first customer out. 


88 


MONA MACLEAN. 


She stood for a minute or two, with her eyes fixed on 
the floor, in a brown study. 

“ Well,” she said at last, “if any lady or gentleman 
thinks that shopkeeping is child’s play, I am prepared to 
show that lady or gentleman a thing or two ! ” 

She had scarcely seated herself behind the counter, 
when the bell rang again, and this time the customer ap- 
peared to be a servant-girl. In spite of her tawdry dress, 
Mona took a fancy to her face at once, the more so as it did 
not seem to bespeak a very critical mind. In fact, it was 
the customer who was ill at ease on this occasion, and who 
waited shyly to be spoken to. 

“ What can I do for you ? ” asked Mona. 

“ I want a new haat.” 

Only for one moment had Mona thoughts of referring her 
to the nearest clergyman. Then she realised the situa- 
tion. 

“ Oh ! ” she said. This was still a heavy responsibility. 
“ Do you know exactly want you want, or would you like to 
see what we can suggest ? ” 

“ I’d like tae see w'hat ye’ve got.” 

“ Is the hat for week days or for Sundays ? ” 

“ For the Sabbath. Miss Simpson had some big red 
roses in the window a while back. I thocht ane or twa o’ 
them wad gang vera weel wi’ this feather.” 

Mona took the small paper parcel in her hand, and gave 
her attention as completely to its contents as she had ever 
done to a microscopic section. It had been an ostrich 
feather at some period of its existence, but it bore more re- 
semblance to a herring-bone now. 

“ Yes,” she said tentatively. “ The feather would have 
to be done up. But don’t you think it is rather a pity to 
have both flowers and feathers in one hat ? ” 

The girl looked aghast. This was heresy indeed. 

“ The feather’s gey thin by itsel’,” she said, “ but if it 
was half covered up wi’ the flowers, it ’d look more dressed 
like.” 

Mona looked at the feather, then at the girl, and then 
she relapsed into profound meditation. 

“ Are you a servant ? ” she asked presently. 

“ Ay.” 

“ Here in Borrowness ? ” 


THE SHOP. 


89 


“ Na ; I’ve come in for the day tae see my mither. I’m 
scullery- maid at the Towers.” 

“ What a pass things must have come to,” thought Mona, 
“ that even a scullery- maid should be allowed to dress like 
this in a good house ! ” 

“ The Towers ! ” she said aloud. “ You have been very 
lucky to get into such a place. Why, if you do your best 
to learn all you can, you will be a first-rate cook some 
day.” 

The girl beamed. 

“ You know,” Mona went on reflectively, “a really first- 
class London servant would think it beneath her to wear 
either feathers or flowers. She would have a neat little bon- 
net like this ” — she picked out one of the few desirable arti- 
cles in the shop — “ and she would have it plainly trimmed 
with a bit of good ribbon or velvet — so ! ” 

She twisted a piece of velvet round the front of the bon- 
net and put it on her own head. Surmounting her trim 
gown, with its spotless collar and cuffs, the bonnet looked 
very well, and to Mona’s great surprise it appealed even to 
the crude taste of her customer. 

“ It’s gey stylish,” said the girl, “ an’ I suppose it ’d 
come a deal cheaper ? ” 

“ No,” said Mona. “ It would not come any cheaper at 
the moment, if you get a good straw; but it would last as 
long as half-a-dozen hats with flowers and feathers. You 
see, it’s like this,” she went on, leaning forward on the 
counter in her earnestness, “ you want to look like the ladies 
at the Towers. Well, it is very natural that you should ; we 
all want to look like the people we admire. The ladies have 
good things and plenty of them ; but that requires money, 
and those of us who have not got much money must be con- 
tent to be like them in one way or the other, — we must 
either have good things or plenty of things. A common 
servant buys cheap satins, and flowers and laces that look 
shabby in a week. No one mistakes her for a lady, and she 
does not look like a good servant. A really first-class maid, 
as I said before, gets a few good simple things, that wear a 
long time, and she looks — well — a great deal more like a 
lady than the other does ! ” 

The girl hesitated. “I daursay I’d get mair guid o’ the 
bannet,” she said. 


90 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I am sure you would. But I don’t want you to decide 
in a hurry. Take time to think it over.” 

“ Na, I’ll tak’ the bannet.” 

Then ensued a discussion of details, and at last the girl 
prepared to go. 

“ And when you are getting a new dress,” said Mona, 
“ get one that will go well with the bonnet — a plain dark 
blue or black serge. You will never tire of that, and you 
have no idea how nice you will look in it.” 

The girl looked admiringly at Mona’s own simple gown, 
and went away smiling. 

“ If all my customers were like that,” thought Mona, 
“ I should be strongly inclined to pitch my tent in Borrow- 
ness for the rest of my natural life.” 

Truly, it never rains but it pours. Scarcely had Mona 
closed the door on customer Number two, when customer N um- 
ber three appeared, and customer Number three was a man. 

“ Good morning,’’ he said courteously. 

“ Good morning, sir.” 

“ I wonder if you have got such a thing as a really good 
piece of india-rubber.” 

Mona took some in from the window, but it was hard 
and brittle. 

“ That is of no use,” she said, “ but I have some more 
up-stairs.” 

A few months before, in Tottenham Court Road, she 
had, as Lucy expressed it, “ struck a rich vein of india-rub- 
ber,” pliable, elastic, and neatly bevelled into dainty pieces. 
Mona had been busy with some fine histological drawings at 
the time, and had laid in a small stock, a sample of which 
she now produced. 

“ I think you v/ill find that quite satisfactory,” she said, 
quietly putting pencil and paper before him. 

He tried it. 

“ Why, I never had such a piece of india-rubber in my 
life before,” he said, looking up in surprise, and their eyes 
met with one of those rare sympathetic smiles which are 
sometimes called forth by a common appreciation of even 
the most trivial things. 

“ I am taking advantage of a holiday to make some dia- 
grams,” he went on, “ and, when one is in a hurry, bread is 
a very poor make-shift for india-rubber.” 


THE SHOP. 


91 


Diagrams! The word sounded like an old friend. 
Mona quite longed to know what they were— botanical ? 
anatomical? physiological ? She merely assented in a word, 
however, and with another courteous “ Good morning ” he 
went away. 

“ A nice shopkeeper I make,” she said scornfully. “ Erst - 
ens , I promise to get in new goods without knowing that the 
proceeding is practicable. Ziveitens , I undertake to make 
a bonnet, which will doubtless prove to be entirely beyond 
my powers. Drittens , I give an estimate for said bonnet, 
which won’t allow sixpence for the trouble of trimming. 
Viertens , I sell a piece of my own india-rubber without so 
much as a farthing of profit. No, my dear girl, it must be 
frankly admitted that, on to-day’s examination, you have 
made something like minus fifty per cent ! ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

CASTLE MACLEAN - . 

The sunlight broke and sparkled on the sea, and all the 
flowering grasses on the braes were dancing in the wind. 
Numberless rugged spurs of rock, crossing the strip of sand 
and shingle, stretched out into the water, and the long trails 
of Fucus fell and rose with the ebb and flow of every wave. 

Mona was half intoxicated with delight. The mid-day 
dinner had been rather a trial to her. The “silver” was far 
from bright, and the crystal was far from clear ; and al- 
though the table-cloth was clean, it might to all intents and 
purposes have been a sheet, so little pretension did it make 
to its proper gloss and sheen. It seemed incredible that, 
within little more than a stone’s throw of the dusty shop and 
the musty parlour, there should be such a world of fresh- 
ness, and openness, and beauty. No need for any one to 
grow petty and narrow-minded here, when a mere “ Open 
Sesame ” was sufficient to bring into view this great, glow- 
ing, bountiful Nature. 

“ It is mine, mine, mine,” she said to herself. “Nobody 


92 


MONA MACLEAN. 


in all the world can take it from me.” And she sang softly 
to music of her own — 

“ ’Tis heaven alone that is given away, 

’Tis only God may be had for the asking.” 

This stretch of breezy coast meant for her all that the secret 
passage to the abbe’s cell meant for Monte Christo — knowl- 
edge, and wisdom, and companionship, and untold treas- 
ures. 

A little distance off, a great column of rock rose abruptly 
from the beach, and Mona found to her delight that, with a 
little easy scrambling, she could reach the summit by means 
of a rude natural staircase at one side. On the top the rocks 
were moulded by rain and wave into nooks and hollows, and 
there was a fairy carpet of small shells and shingle, sea- 
campions and “ thrift.” In front of her, for leagues and 
leagues, stretched the rippling, dazzling sea; behind rose 
the breezy braes ; and away to the left the afternoon sun 
shone on the red roofs, and was flashed back from the mu- 
seum windows and weather-cocks of Kirkstoun. Mona se- 
lected a luxurious arm-chair, and ensconced herself comfort- 
ably for the afternoon. 

The old clock was striking five when she entered the 
house. 

“ I do hope I am not late for tea,” she said. “ I have 
had such a lovely time ! ” 

“ I see that,” said Rachel, smiling involuntarily as her 
eyes fell on the bright glowing face. “ Get off your things, 
and come away.” 

“ And look, I found a treasure,” said Mona re-entering, 
“ some Bloody Cranesbill.” 

“ Rh? Is that what you call it? It’s a queer-like name. 
It’s gey common about here. You’ll find plenty of it by the 
roadside among the fields.” 

“ Really ? Or do you mean the Meadow Cranesbill ? It 
is very like this, but purpler, and it has two flowers on each 
stalk instead of one.” 

As Rachel belonged to that large section of the commu- 
nity which would be wholly at a loss for a reply if asked 
whether a primrose and a buttercup had four petals or six, 
she remained discreetly silent. 


CASTLE MACLEAN. 


93 


But, curiously enough, Mona’s childlike and unaffected 
delight in the sea and the flowers set her cousin more nearly 
at ease than anything had done yet. 

“ After all,” she thought, “ it’s a great thing for a town- 
bred girl to stay in the country for a change, and with her 
own flesh and blood too. She must have been dull enough, 
poor thing, alone in London.” 

“ When you want to get rid of me for a whole day,” said 
Mona presently, “ I mean to go off on a botanising excursion 
round the coast. I am sure there must be lots of treasures 
blushing unseen.” 

“ We’ll do something better than that,” said Rachel, after 
a moment’s hesitation as to whether the occasion were wor- 
thy of a trump card. “ Some fine day, if we are spared, we’ll 
take the coach to St Rules, and see all the sights. There’s 
a shop in South Street where we can get pies and lemonade, 
and we’ll have an egg to our tea when we come back.” 

“ I should dearly like to see St. Rules,” said Mona. “ I 
have heard of the sea-girt castle all my life ; and the pros- 
pect of an ‘ egg to my tea ’ is a great additional attraction. 
I cannot tell you all the gala memories of childhood that 
the idea calls up — picnics in pine woods, and break-neck 
scrambles, and all sorts of adventures.” 

She did not add that “ pies and lemonade ” were not a 
part of those gala memories ; but in truth the idea of lunch- 
ing “ genteelly ” with Rachel, on that squalid fare in a shop, 
depressed her as few hardships could have done. 

“ What are you in the way of taking to your supper in 
London ? ” asked Rachel. “ I usually have porridge myself, 
but it’s not everybody that can take them.” 

“ Oh, let us have porridge by all means ! I believe the 
two characteristics by which you can always diagnose a 
Scotsman are a taste for porridge, and a keen appreciation 
of the bagpipes. I mean to prove worthy of my nation- 
ality.” 

“ And do you like them thick or thin ? ” 

“ The bagpipes ? Oh, the porridge ! The question seems 
to be a momentous one, and unless I leave it to you, I must 
decide in the dark. I imagine — it would be safer to say 
thin.” 

“ Well, I always take them thin myself,” said Rachel, in 
a tone of relief, “ but some people — you’d wonder ! — they 


9d 


MONA MACLEAN. 


like them that thick that a spoon will stand up in the mid- 
dle ! It’s curious how tastes differ, but it takes all sorts to 
make a world, they say.” 

“Verily,” said Mona earnestly. “But now I must tell 
you about my customers. You have not even asked whether 
I had any, and I assure you I had a most exciting time.” 

“Well, I never! Was there anybody in? I was that 
taken up with Mrs. Smith, you see, poor body ! ” 

“Of course. But now you must know in the first place 
that I had three whole live customers,” and Mona proceeded 
to give a pretty full account of the experiences of the morn- 
ing. 

“ That would be Mistress Dickson — I ken fine,” said 
Rachel, relapsing in her excitement into the Doric, “ a frac- 
tious, fault-finding body. I’m sure she may take her custom 
elsewhere, and welcome, for me. I never heard the like. 
She aye lias an eye to a good bargain, and if I say I make 
sixpence profit out of her in a twelvemonth, it’s more likely 
above the mark than below it.” 

“ That I can quite believe,” said Mona, “ but you know, 
dear, the elastic had perished, and she was quite right to 
complain of that. We must get some fresh in the course of 
the week.” 

“ Hoot awa ! We’ll do nothing of the sort. If the trav- 
eller comes, round between this and then, we’ll take some off 
him, but I’ll not stir a foot to oblige old Betsy Dickson. 
She knows quite well that I don’t need to keep the shop.” 

“ But, dear,” — Mona seated herself on a stool at her 
cousin’s feet, and laid her white hand on the wrinkled red 
one, — “ I don’t see that requiring to keep the shop has any- 
thing to do with it. If we keep it at all, surely we ought 
to keep it really well.” 

“And who says I don’t keep it well ? Nobody heeds old 
Betsy and her grumbling. Everything I buy is the best of 
its kind ; not the tawdry stuff you get in the London shops, 
that’s only got up to sell. You don’t know a good tape 
and stay-lace when you see them, or I wouldn’t need to tell 
you that.” 

“ I am quite sure of it. But you know, dear, you can 
get good things as well as bad in the London shops, and 
you can get them fresh and wonderfully cheap. The next 
time you want a good many things, I wish you would let 


CASTLE MACLEAN. 


95 


me go to London for them. I am sure at the Stores and 
some other places I know, I could make better bargains than 
you can with your traveller ; and I would bring a lot of 
those dainty novelties that people expect to pay dear for in 
the provinces. We would make our little shop the talk of 
the countryside.” 

“ Hoot, havers, lassie ! ” laughed Rachel, no more enter- 
taining the idea than if Mona had suggested a voyage to the 
North Pole. “ Why, I declare,” she added, with a renewal 
of that agreeable sense of superiority, “ you’re not like me ; 
you’re a born shopkeeper after all ! But who else was in ? ” 

Mona drew a long face. “ There was a man” she said, 
with mock solemnity. 

“ Oh ! I wonder who it would be ? What like was he ? ” 

“ Tall,” said Mona, ticking off his various attributes on 
the fingers of her left hand, “ thin, ugly, lanky. In fact,” 
— she broke olf with a laugh, — “ in spite of his height, he 
conveyed a general impression to my mind of what one of 
our lecturers describes as ‘ failure to attain the anatomical 
and physiological ideal.’ He was loosely hung together like 
a cheap clothes-horse, and he wore his garments in much 
the same fashion that a clothes-horse does.” (This, as her 
customer’s tailor could have certified, was most unjust. A 
vivid recollection of the Sahib was making Mona hyper- 
critical.) “ The down of manhood had not settled on his 
upper lip with what you could call luxuriance; he wore 
spectacles — ” 

“ Spectacles ! ” repeated Rachel, alighting with relief on 
a bit of firm foothold in a stretch of quicksand. “You 
don’t mean — was he a gentleman ? ” 

“ I suppose so. Yes.” 

“ Oh ! I might have gone on guessing for an hour. You 
said he was a man” 

“ God made him, and so I was prepared to let him pass 
for one, as Portia says. Did you think the term was too 
complimentary ? ” 

Rachel laughed. “Had he on a suit of dark blue 
serge ? ” 

“ Now you suggest it, I believe he had.” 

“ And had he a pleasant frank-like way with him ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ It would be Dr. Dudley. What was he wanting here ? ” 


96 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ India-rubber.” 

“Well, I am sure there was plenty of that. I got a box- 
ful years and years ago, and nobody has been asking for it 
at all lately.” 

“ I should imagine not,” thought Mona. “ Once bit, 
twice shy.” 

“ Is he the resident medicus f ” she asked. 

“ Oh, no ! He does not belong to these parts. He 
comes from London. When you were going down to the 
braes, did you notice a big white house with a large garden 
and a lodge, just at the beginning of the Kirkstoun road? ” 

“ Yes — a fine house.” 

“ His old aunt lives there — Mistress Hamilton. She 
used to come here just for the summer, and bring a number 
of visitors with her ; but latterly she has stayed here most 
of the time, unless when she is ordered to some Spa or 
other. She says no air agrees with her like this. He is her 
heir. She makes a tremendous work with him ; I believe 
he is the only living thing she cares for in the world. He 
mostly spends his holidays with her, and whiles, when she’s 
more ailing than usual, he comes down from London on 
the Friday night, and goes up again on the Sunday night.” 

“ He can’t have a very large practice in London, surely, 
if he can do that.” 

“ He’s not rightly practising at all, yet. He has been a 
doctor for some years, but he is studying for something else. 
I don’t understand it myself. But he is very clever ; he 
gave me some powders that cured my rheumatism in a few 
days, when Dr. Burns had been working away half the win- 
ter with lotions and fomentations, and lime-juice, and — ” 

“ Alkalies,” thought Mona. “ Much more scientific 
treatment than the empirical use of salicin.” 

For Mona was young and had never suffered from rheu- 
matism. 

“ —and bandages and that,” concluded Rachel. “ It’s 
some time now since I’ve seen him. His aunt has been 
away at Strathpeffer all the summer, and the house has been 
shut up.” 

“ But I have still another customer to account for ; ” and 
in some fear and trembling, Mona told the story of the 
scullery-maid and her bonnet. 

“ My word ! ” said Rachel, “ you gave yourself a deal of 


CASTLE MACLEAN. 


97 


trouble. I don’t see that it matters what they wear, and 
the hats pay better. Young folks will be young, you know, 
and for my part I don’t see why May should go like De- 
cember.” 

Mona sighed. “Perhaps I was wrong,” she said; “I 
don’t think it is a common fault of mine to be too ready to 
interfere with other people ; but the girl looked so quiet 
and sensible, in spite of her trumpery clothes. Servants 
never used to dress like that ; but perhaps, like a child, I 
have been building a little sand-dyke to prevent the tide 
from coming in.” 

“ What I can’t see is, why you should trouble yourself 
about what they wear. One would think, to hear you talk, 
that it was a question of honesty or religion like.” 

Mona sighed again, and then laughed a little bitterly. 
“No doubt the folks here could instruct me in matters of 
honesty and religion,” she said ; “ but I did fancy this morn- 
ing that I could teach that child a thing or two about her 
bonnet.” 

“ Oh, well, I daresay she’ll be in on Monday morning to 
say she’s thought better of it.” 

There was a long silence and then Rachel went on, 
“My dear, however did you come by that extraordinary 
name? I never heard the like of it. They called your 
mother Margaret, didn’t they?” 

“ Yes, Margaret is my own second name, but I never use 
it. So long as a name is distinctive, the shorter it is, the 
better.” 

“H’m. It would have been a deal wiser-like if you’d 
left out the Mona. I can’t bring it over my tongue at all.” 

And in fact, as long as Mona lived with her cousin, she 
was constrained to answer to the appellation of “ my dear.” 

“My dear,” said Rachel now, “I don’t think I ever 
heard what church you belong to.” 

Mona started. “ I was brought up in the Church of 
England,” she said. 

“ Surely your father never belonged to the Church of 

England?” . T 

“ He usually attended the church service out m India 
with my mother. I don’t think he considered himself, 
strictly speaking, a member of any individual church, al- 
though he was a very religious man.” 

1 


98 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Ay. I’ve heard that he wasn’t exactly sound.” 

“ I fancy he would be considered absolutely sound nowa- 
days,— 

‘ For in this windy world 
What’s up is faith, what’s down is heresy.’ ” 

Rachel looked puzzled. “Oh!” she said with sudden 
comprehension. “ No, no, you mustn’t say that. Truth is 
always the same.” 

“From the point of view of Deity, no doubt; hut to us 
poor ‘ minnows in the creek ’ every wave is practically a 
fresh creation.” 

“ I wish you’d been brought up a Baptist,” said Rachel 
uneasily. “ It’s all so simple and definite, and there’s 
Scripture for everything we believe. You must have a talk 
with the minister. He’s a grand . Gospel preacher, and 
great at discussions on Baptist principles.” 

“ Dear cousin,” said Mona, “ five years ago I should 
have enjoyed nothing better than such a discussion, but it 
seems to me now that silence is best. The faith we argue 
about is rarely the faith we live by ; and if it is — so much 
the worse for our lives.” 

“ But how are we to learn any better if we don’t talk?” 

“ Surely it is by silence that we learn the best things. 
It was from the loneliness of the Mount that Moses brought 
down the tables of stone.” 

“ I don’t see what that has to do with it. There’s 
many a one in the town has been brought round to sound 
Baptist principles by a sermon, or an argument on the sub- 
ject. I believe you’ve no notion, my dear, how the whole 
Bible, looked at in the right way, points to the fact that the. 
Baptists hold the true doctrine and practice. There’s 
Philip and the Eunuch, and the Paschal Lamb — no, that’s 
the plan of salvation, — and the passage of the Red Sea, and 
the true meaning of the Greek word translated ‘ baptise.’ 
We’d a missionary preaching here last Sabbath, and he said 
he had not the smallest doubt that China, in common with 
the whole world, would eventually become Baptist. That 
was how he put it — ‘ eventually become Baptist.’ ” 

“ ‘ A consummation devoutly to be wished,’ no doubt,” 
said Mona, “ but did the missionary point out in what re- 
spect the world would be the ‘ forrader ’ ? ” 


CASTLE MACLEAN. 


99 


A moment later she would have given anything to recall 
the words. They had slipped out almost involuntarily, and 
besides, she had never lived in a Dissenting circle, and she 
had no conception how very real Rachel’s Baptist principles 
were to her, nor how she longed to witness the surprise of 
the “ many mighty and many wise,” when, contrary to their 
expectations, they beheld the whole world “ eventually be- 
come Baptist.” 

“Forgive me, dear,” said Mona. “I did not mean to 
hurt you, I am only stupid ; I don’t understand these 
things.” 

“ To my mind,” said Rachel severely, “ obedience to the 
revealed will of God is none the less a duty because our 
salvation does not actually depend upon it, — though I 
doubt not some difference will be made, at the last day, be- 
tween those who saw His will and those who shut their eyes 
and hardened their hearts. I have a very low opinion of the 
Church of England myself, and Mr. Stuart says the same.” 

“Have you a Baptist Church here in Borrowness?” 
asked Mona, thinking it well to change the subject. 

“ No ; though there are a good few Baptists. We walk 
over to Kirkstoun. I suppose you will be going to sit un- 
der Mr. Ewing ? ” 

“Who is he?” 

“ The English Church minister. His chapel is near Mrs. 
Hamilton’s house. He has not got the root of the matter 
in him at all. He’s a good deal taken up by the gentry at 
the Towers ; and he raises prize poultry — queer-like occupa- 
tion for a minister.” 

“ If it will give you any pleasure,” said Mona, with rash 
catholicity, “ I will go to church with you every Sunday 
morning.” 

Rachel’s rubicund face beamed. 

“ You will find it very quiet, after the fashionable service 
you’re used to,” she said ; “but you’ll hear the true Word 
of God there.” 

« That is saying much,” said Mona, rather drearily ; 
“ but I don’t go to a fashionable church in London ; ” and a 
pang of genuine home-sickness shot through her heart, as 
she thought of the dear, barn-like old chapel in Bloomsbury, 
whither she had gone Sunday after Sunday in search of 
“ beautiful thoughts.” 


100 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ You tactless brute,” she said to herself as she set her 
candlestick on the dressing-table that evening, “ if you have 
only come here to tread on that good soul’s corns, the sooner 
you tramp back to London the better.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE CHAPEL. 

The next morning the sun rose into a cloudless blue sky, 
and Mona found herself looking froward with pleasure to 
the walk into Kirkstoun. The road lay along the coast, and 
was separated from the sea by a stretch of yellow corn-fields. 
The inland scenery was flat and tame, but, after the massive 
grandeur of Norway, Mona’s eye rested with quiet satisfac- 
tion on the smiling acres, cut into squares, like a giant’s 
chess-board, by scraggy hedges and lichen-grown dykes. 

They had gone about half-way, when a pleasant voice be- 
hind them said, “ Good morning, Miss Simpson.” 

“ Oh, good morning, doctor ! My dear, this is Dr. Dud- 
ley.” 

He lifted his hat and accommodated his long ramshackle 
stride to Rachel’s podgy steps. 

“ How goes the rheumatism ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s wonderful, doctor. Whenever I feel a twinge, I 
get the chemist to make me up some of those powders of 
yours, and they work like magic.” 

“ That’s right. You will give me a testimonial, won’t 
you ? ” 

“That I will, with all my heart. But you are surely 
forsaking Mr. Ewing this morning ? What will he say to 
that ? ” 

“ Even so, Miss Simpson. Fortunately, Mr. Ewing is 
not touchy on that score. Your Mr. Stuart asked me wdth 
charming frankness to come and hear him, so I am taking 
the first opportunity of accepting his invitation.” 

“ I’m glad to hear it. You will hear a very different ser- 
mon to one of Mr. Ewing’s.” 


THE CHAPEL. 


101 


He laughed. “ Mr. Ewing is not a Chrysostom,” he said, 
“ but he is a good fellow and a gentleman, and in that capa- 
city I think he has a distinctly refining influence on his 
people.” 

“No doubt, doctor ; but don’t you think it is better to 
have the water of life in an earthen vessel ? ” 

“ Ah, yes,” he said, with sudden seriousness. “ If you 
give us the water of life, we won’t stop to criticise the 
bowl.” 

“ Well, you wait till you hear Mr. Stuart.” 

An almost imperceptible smile played about his mouth. 
He glanced at Mona, and found her eyes fixed on his face; 
but she looked away instantly. She would not be guilty of 
the disloyalty to Rachel involved in the subtlest voluntary 
glance of comprehension ; but her face was a very eloquent 
one, and his short-sighted eyes were quick. 

“ Que fait-elle done dans cette gaUre 9 ” he thought. 

“ My dear,” said Rachel to Mona, in that mysterious 
tone invariably assumed by some people when they speak of 
things sacred, “ we always have the Communion after the 
morning service. Were you meaning to stay? ” 

“ You would not have me, would you ? ” 

“You’d wonder.” Rachel raised her voice. “We’re 
very wide. Mr. Stuart has got into trouble with several 
other ministers in the Union for his liberality. He says 
he will turn away no man who is a converted Christian.” 

Dr. Dudley’s eyes sparkled. “ I should have thought a 
converted pagan would be even dearer to Stuart’s heart.” 

“ So he would, so he would, doctor. You know what I 
mean. Mr. Stuart says the simple name Christian is not 
sufficient nowadays, because so many folks who call them- 
selves by that name fight shy of the word ‘ converted.’ ” 

Again Dr. Dudley glanced at Mona, but this time she 
was on her guard. 

“ I think it is one of the grandest words I know,” she 
said, proudly, looking straight in front of her. “ But I 
think I won’t stay to-day, dear, thank you. Shall I wait 
for you ? ” 

“ Please yourself, my dear, please yourself. There’s al- 
ways quite a party of us walks home together.” 

They had entered the quaint old town, and were greeted 
by a strong smell of fish and of seaweed, as they descended 


102 


MONA MACLEAN. 


a steep angular street to the shore. Here a single row of 
uneven shops and tenements faced the harbour, alive to-day 
with the rich tints and picturesque outlines of well-patched 
canvas sails ; and brown-faced, flaxen-haired babies basked 
on the flags at the mouths of the closes. A solitary gig was 
rattling over the stones, with a noise and stir quite dispro- 
portionate to its size and importance ; and the natives, 
Bible in hand, were quietly discussing the last haul of her- 
ring on their way to the kirk. 

Rachel led the way up another steep little hill, away 
from the sea; and they entered the dark, narrow, sunless 
street, where the chapel stood in well-to-do simplicity, op- 
posite a large and odoriferous tannery. 

The interior of the chapel opened up another new 
corner of the world for Mona. Fresh paint and varnish 
and crimson cushions gave a general impression of smug 
respectability, and half the congregation had duly assembled 
in Sunday attire; the women in well-preserved Paisley 
shawls and purple bonnet-strings, the little girls in blue 
ribbons and pink roses, and the boys severely superior in 
uncompromising, ill-fitting Sabbath suits, with an extra 
supply of “ grease ” on their home-cropped hair. Already 
there was a distinct suspicion of peppermint in the atmos- 
phere, and the hymn-books and Bibles on the book boards 
were interspersed with stray marigolds and half-withered 
sprigs of southernwood. 

There was nothing remarkable about either service or 
sermon. The latter was a fair average specimen of thou- 
sands that were being delivered throughout the country at 
the same moment. Those in sympathy with the preacher 
would have found something to admire ; those out of sym- 
pathy, something to smile at; probably there was not a 
single word that would have surprised or startled any one. 

The sun became very hot about noon. The air in the 
chapel grew closer and closer, the varnish on the pews more 
and more sticky, and the smell of peppermint stronger every 
minute. A small boy beside Mona fell asleep immediately 
after the first hymn ; and, but for the constant intervention 
of Dr. Dudley, who sat behind, a well-oiled little head 
would have fallen on her arm a dozen times in the course 
of the service. She was thankful that she had not promised 
to wait for Rachel, and, as soon as the benediction had been 


THE CHAPEL. 


103 


pronounced, she escaped into the fresh air like an uncaged 
bird. 

She had not walked far before she was overtaken by Dr. 
Dudley. 

“Well,” he said, “you will be glad to hear that the 
india-rubber has been doing yeoman service.” 

Mona bowed without replying. She was annoyed with 
him for entering into conversation with her in this matter- 
of-course way. No doubt he thought that a shop-girl 
would be only too much flattered by his condescension. 

But Dudley was thinking more of her face than of her 
silence. One did not often see a face like that. He had 
been watching it all through the sermon, and it tempted 
him to go on. 

“ Pathetic soul, that,” he said. 

“ Mr. Stuart ? ” asked Mona indifferently. 

“ Yes. He is quite a study to me when I come down 
here. He is struggling out of the mire of mediocrity, and 
he might as well save himself the trouble.” 

Mona smiled in spite of herself — a quick, appreciative 
smile — and Dudley hesitated no longer. 

“ After undergoing agonies of doubt, and profound 
study — of Joseph Cook — he has decided ‘to accept evolu- 
tion "within limits,’ as he phrases it. I believe he never 
enters the pulpit now without an agreeable and galling sense 
of how he might electrify his congregation if he only chose, 
and of how his scientific culture is thrown away on a hand- 
ful of fisher-folk.” 

Dr. Dudley was amused with himself for talking in this 
strain ; but in his present mood he would have discussed the 
minister with his horse or his dog, had either of them been 
his sole companion ; and besides, he was interested to see 
how Mona would take his character-sketch. W ould she 
understand his nineteenth-century jargon? . 

Her answer was intelligent if non-committal. 

« He must be a man of sense and of self -repression,” she 
said quietly. 

“ \y e ll — he does not preach the survival of the fittest and 
the action of environment, certainly ; but that is just where 
the pathos of it comes in. If he were the man he thinks he 
is, he would preach those things in spite of himself, and 
without his people finding it out. The fact is, that in the 


104 


MONA MACLEAN. 


course of his life he has assimilated two doctrines, and only 
two, — Justification by Faith — or his own version of the 
same, — and Baptism by Immersion as a profession of Faith. 
Anything else that he has acquired, or will acquire, is the 
merest accretion, and not a part of himself at all.” 

“ In other words, he resembles ninety-nine-hundredths 
of the human race.” 

Dudley laughed. “ Perhaps,” he said. “ Poor Stuart ! 
I believe that in every new hearer he sees a possible inter- 
esting young sceptic, on whom he longs to try the force of 
concession. Such a tussel is the Ultima Tlmle of his am- 
bition.” 

“ It seems a pity that it should not be realised. The in- 
teresting young sceptic is a common species enough nowa- 
days, and he rarely has any objection to posing in that ca- 
pacity.” 

Dr. Dudley had not been studying her for nothing all 
morning. Her tone jarred on him now, and he looked at 
her with his quick, keen glance. 

“ I wonder how long it is — ” he said, and then he de- 
cided that the remark was quite unwarrantable. 

Mona’s stiffness thawed in a quiet laugh. 

“ Since I was an interesting young sceptic myself ? ” she 
said. “ I suppose I did lay myself open to that. Oh, it is 
a long, long time ! I dont find it easy to build a new Rome 
on the ashes of one that has been destroyed.” 

_ “ Don’t you ? ” he said, with quick comprehension. “ I 
think I do, rather. It is such a ghastly sensation to have 
no Rome. 

‘ Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my soul,—’ ” 

“ Go on,” said Mona. 

“ ‘ Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past. 

Let each new temple, nobler than the last. 

Shut thee from heaven by a dome more vast ; 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea ! ’ ” 

Then suddenly it flashed on Mona wherein his great 
charm lay. He had one of the most beautiful voices she 
had ever heard. 


REACTION. 


105 


“We might strike down to the beach here,” he said, 
“ and go home by the braes. It is ever so much pleasanter.” 

“ Not to-day, I think,” said Mona, but what she meant 
was, “Not with you.” 

They were deep in conversation when they reached Mrs. 
Hamilton’s gate, and he was almost in the act of walking on 
with her to her own door; but he suddenly remembered 
who she was, and thought better of it. Not a very noble 
consideration, perhaps, when looked at from the standpoint 
of eternity ; but even the best of us do not at all times look 
at life from the standpoint of eternity. 

“ Who is that young — person, who lives with Miss Simp- 
son ? ” he asked his aunt as they sat at lunch. He would 
have said “young lady” but for Mrs. Hamilton’s well- 
known prejudices on the subject. “ She seems remarkably 
intelligent.” 

“ She’s a niece, I believe. Yes, she’s sensible enough. I 
have not seen them since I came back.” 

“ But you don’t mean to say her mother was Miss Simp- 
son’s sister ? ” 

“ I suppose so. Why not ? ” 

“ Why not ? Talk of freaks of Nature ! This girl seems 
to be a sort of hidden genius.” 

“ Oh, Ralph, come ! ” said the old lady with a twinkle in 
her eye. “ There’s plenty of backbiting in Borrowness, and 
Miss Simpson’s niece must expect to come in for her share 
of it, but I never heard that said of her yet ! ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

REACTION. 

The first fortnight of Mona’s stay at Borrowness was 
drawing to a close, and she was wellnigh prostrated with 
sheer physical reaction. 

“ It is certainly my due, after all the pleasant excitement 
of Norway,” she thought; for she would not admit, even to 


106 


MONA MACLEAN. 


herself, that the strain of settling down to these new condi- 
tions of life had taxed her nerves more than medical study 
and examinations had ever been able to do. 

She tried hard to be brave and bright, but even Rachel’s 
unobservant eye could not always fail to notice the contrast 
between her gaiety of manner and the almost woe-begone 
expression which her face sometimes wore in repose. Even 
the welcome arrival of the traveller, with samples of elastic, 
inter alia , only roused her for a few minutes from the leth- 
argy into which she had fallen. If she could have spent a 
good deal of her time at Castle Maclean, as she had dubbed 
the column of rock on the beach, things would have been 
more bearable ; but the weather continued fine, and Rachel 
insisted on making an interminable round of dreary after- 
noon calls. 

Day after day they put on their “ best things,” and sallied 
forth, to sit by the hour in rose-scented parlours and exert 
themselves to talk about nothing. Even in this, under 
ordinary circumstances, Mona would have found abundant 
amusement, but it was not the most appropriate treatment 
for a profound fit of depression. 

“ I suppose, if I had eyes to see it, these people are all 
intensely interesting,” she said to herself, “ but, heaven help 
me, I find them as dull as ditch-water ! ” 

This opinion was probably mutual, for Mona’s sprightli- 
ness of manner had entirely deserted her for the moment. 
It was all she could do to be tolerably amiable, and to speak 
when she was spoken to. Some of the people they called 
upon remembered vaguely that her father had been a great 
man, and treated her with exaggerated respect in conse- 
quence ; but to the majority she was simply Rachel Simp- 
son’s cousin, a person of very small account in the Borrow- 
ness world. 

“We have still to go and see Auntie Bell,” said Rachel 
at last ; “ but we’ll wait till Mr. Hogg can drive us out in 
his machine. He is always ready to oblige me.” 

“ Who is Auntie Bell ? ” 

“ She’s the same relation to me that I am to you ; in 
fact, she’s a far-away connection of your own. She’s a plain 
body, taken up with her hens and her dairy, — indeed, for 
the matter of that, she manages the whole farm.” 

“ A sort of Mrs. Poyser ? ” 


REACTION. 


107 


“ I don’t know her .' 1 

“Not know Mrs. Poyser? Oh, yon must let me read 
you about her. We shall finish that story in the Sunday 
at Home this evening, and to-morrow we will begin Mrs. 
Poyser. It’s a capital story, and I should dearly like your 
opinion of it.” 

Rachel had not much faith in the attractions of any 
story recommended by Mona ; but, if it was about a farmer’s 
wife, it must surely be at least comprehensible, and probably 
more or less interesting. 

The next morning Mona was alone in the shop. Her 
fairy fingers had wrought a wonderful change in her sur- 
roundings, but it seemed to her now in her depression that 
she might better have let things alone. “ Oh, reform it al- 
together ! ” she said bitterly. “ What’s the use of patching 
— ivhat's the use ? ” 

The shop bell rang sharply, and Dr. Dudley came in. It 
was a relief to see some one quite different from the people 
with whom her social intercourse had lain of late. 

“ Good morning,” he said. “ How are you ? ” 

“ Good morning,” said Mona. 

She ignored his offered hand, but she was surprised to 
hear herself answering unconventionally. 

“ I am bored,” she said, “ to the last limit of endurance.” 

He drew down his brows with a frown of sympathy. 

“ Are you ? ” he said. “ What do you do for it ? ” 

“ I do believe he is going to recommend Easton’s Syrup ! ” 
thought Mona. 

“ Ah, that’s the trouble,” she said. “ I am not young 
enough to write a tragedy, so there is nothing for it but to 
grin and bear it.” 

“ You ought to go out for a regular spin,” he said kind- 
ly. “ There’s nothing like that for blowing away the cob- 
webs.” 

“ I can’t to-day, but to-morrow I am going for a twenty- 
mile walk along the coast ” — “ botanising,” she was about 
to add, but she thought better of it. 

“ Don’t overdo it,” he said. “ If you are not in training, 
twenty miles is too much,” and his eye rested admiringly 
on her figure, as the Sahib’s had done only a fortnight be- 
fore. He was thinking that if his aunt’s horse were less fat, 
and hei carriage less heavy, and the world constructed on 


108 


MONA MACLEAN. 


different principles generally, he would like nothing better 
than to take this bright young girl for a good rattle across 
the county. 

“ I think I am in pretty fair training, thank you. Can 
I show you anything this morning?” For Mona wished it 
to be understood that no young man was at liberty to drop 
into the shop for the sole purpose of gossip. 

He sighed. “ What have you got that is in the least 
likely to be of the smallest use to me at any future period 
of my life ? ” he felt half inclined to say ; but instead, he 
bought some pens — which he certainly did not want — and 
showed no sign of going. 

“ My dear,” called Rachel’s anxious roice, “ come here 
quick, will you ? Sally has cut her finger to the bone ! ” 

“ Allow me,” said Dr. Dudley, taking a neat little surgical 
case from his pocket. “ That is more in my line than yours, 
I think,” and he hastily left the room. 

“ Is it indeed ! ” said Mona saucily to herself, drawing 
the counterpart of his case from her own pocket. “ Set you 
up ! ” 

She was about to follow him, “ to hold the forceps,” as 
she said, when the bell rang again, and two red-haired, 
showily-dressed girls entered the shop. They seemed sur- 
passed to see Mona there, and looked at her critically. 

“ Some blue ribbon,” said one of them languidly, with a 
comical affectation of hauteur. 

Mona laid the box on the counter, and they ran their 
eyes over the poor little store. 

“ Mo, there is nothing there that will do.” 

Mona bowed, and replaced the box on the shelf. 

“ You don’t mean to say that is all you’ve got ! Why, 
it is not even fresh. Some of it is half faded.” 

“ Truly,” said Mona quietly. “ I suppose you will be 
able to get what you want elsewhere.” 

“ I told you it was no use, Matilda, in a place like this,” 
said the elder of the two, looking contemptuously round the 
shop. “ Pa will be driving us in to St. Rules in a day or 
tw r o. There are some decent shops there.” 

“ What is the use of that when I want it to-night? Just 
let me see the box again.” 

She took up the least impossible roll of ribbon and re- 
garded it critically. 


REACTION. 


109 


“ You can’t possibly take that, Matilda. Every shop- 
girl wears that shade.” 

Matilda nudged her sister violently, and they both strove 
to prevent a giggle from getting the better of their dignity. 
Fortunately, when they looked at Mona, she seemed to be 
quite unconscious of this little by-play. The younger was 
the first to recover herself. 

“ I will take two yards of that,” she said, trying to make 
up for her momentary lapse by increased hauteur, and she 
threw half-a-sovereign on the counter, without inquiring 
the price. 

Mona had just given her the parcel and the change, 
when Rachel came in full of obsequious interest, and in- 
quiries about “ your pa ” and “ your ma ” ; so Mona with- 
drew to the other side of the shop. 

“ I see you have got a new assistant, Miss Simpson,” 
said Matilda, patronisingly. 

“ I’m happy to say I have, — a relation of my own, too, — 
Miss Maclean.” 

Rachel meant it for an informal introduction, but Mona 
did not raise her eyes from the wools she was arranging. 

“You will be glad to hear that the wound is a very 
trifling one,” said Dr. Dudley’s pleasant voice a moment 
later, as he re-entered the shop and walked straight up to 
Mona. “ Good morning.” In spite of the previous rebuff, 
he held out his hand cordially, and, although Mona was 
somewhat amused, she appreciated the kindness of his mo- 
tive too warmly to refuse his hand again. 

And indeed it was a pleasant hand to take — firm, “ live,” 
brotherly, non-aggressive. 

But she responded to his salutation with a very audible, 
“ Good morning, sir.” 

“ Damnation ! ” he said to himself, “ the girl is as proud 
as Lucifer. She might have left the ‘ sir ’ alone for once.” 

From which you will perceive that Dr. Dudley had 
heard something of the conversation which had just taken 
place, had guessed a little more, and had resolved in a very 
friendly spirit to play the part of a deus ex machina. 

He went out of the shop in company with the red-haired 

girls. . 

“Do you know that young woman is a relation ot Miss 
Simpson’s ? ” asked one of them. 


110 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I do.” 

“ She might be a duchess from the airs she gives her- 
self,” said the other. 

Dr. Dudley was silent. It would be a gratuitous exag- 
geration to say that Mona would grace that or any other 
position, although the contrast she presented to these two 
girls made him feel strongly inclined to do so ; and in any 
case it was always a mistake to show one’s hand. 

“ Well, you needn’t have said that about shop-girls all 
the same,” said Matilda. 

“ I don’t care ! It would do her good to be taken down 
a peg.” 

“ Ah, Miss Cookson,” said Dr. Dudley, thankfully seiz- 
ing his opportunity, “ don’t you think it is dangerous work 
trying to take people down a peg ? It requires such a deli- 
cate hand, that I never attempt it myself. One is so very 
apt to take one’s self down instead.” 

He lifted his hat with a short “ Good morning,” and 
strode away in the opposite direction. 

“ Where were your eyes ? ” said Rachel, when the cus- 
tomers had left the shop. “ Miss Cookson was going to 
shake hands with you, I believe ; and they’re the richest 
people in Borrowness.” 

“ Thank you very much, dear,” replied Mona, quietly, 
“ but one must draw the line somewhere. If our customers 
have less manners than Mrs. Sanderson’s pig, I will serve 
them to the best of my ability, but I must decline the hon- 
our of their personal acquaintance.” 

This explanation was intended mainly as a quiet snub to 
Rachel. In the life at Borrowness, nothing tried Mona 
more sorely than the way in which her cousin truckled to 
every one whom she considered her social superior ; and it 
was almost unavoidable that Mona herself should be driven 
to the opposite extreme in her morbid resolution that no 
one should consider her guilty of the same meanness. “ I 
don’t suppose for a moment that those girls would bow to 
Rachel in the streets of St. Rules,” she thought. “ Why 
can she not be content to look upon them as customers and 
nothing more ? ” 

Poor Mona ! She was certainly learning something of 
the seamiest side of the “ wide puzzling subject of compro- 
mise.” Hitherto she had been responsible for herself alone, 


THE BOTANISTS. 


Ill 


and so had lived simply and frankly ; but now a thousand 
petty considerations were forced upon her in spite of her- 
self, because she felt responsible for her cousin too. 

“ Well, they do say the Cooksons are conceited and 
stiff,” said Rachel, “ but they’re always pleasant enough to 
me.” 

She found considerable satisfaction afterwards, however, 
in detailing to one of her friends how Mona had taken the 
bull by the horns, and had attributed the stiffness on which 
the Cooksons so prided themselves to simple want of man- 
ners. She felt as the people did in Hans Andersen’s story 
when the first voice had found courage to say, “ But he has 
got nothing on ! ” and she never again absolutely grovelled 
before the Cooksons. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE BOTANISTS. 

Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Mona 
slung her vasculum over her shoulder, strapped a business- 
like spud round her waist, tucked a well-worn ‘ Hooker ’ 
under her arm, and set off at a good brisk pace. Contrary 
to all expectations, the rain still held off ; and, as physical 
exercise brought the blood to her face, the clouds of her 
depression rolled away like mountain mists in the sun- 
shine. 

She kept to the highroad for the first few miles, and 
then, when she was well past the haunts of men, struck on 
to the glorious, undulating, sandy dunes. 

Botanising was not very easy work now, for most of the 
plants were in fruit, and sometimes not even the youngest 
member of an inflorescence persisted, as a pale stray floret, 
to proclaim the pedigree of its family. But Mona was no 
tyro in the work, and her vasculum filled up steadily. 
Moreover, she was not disposed to quarrel with anything 
to-day, and when she reached the extreme easterly point of 
the county, and stood all alone at the water’s edge, she felt 


112 


MONA MACLEAN. 


the same sense of exultation and proprietorship that she 
had experienced on the wild pack-horse track above the 
Naerodal. 

All at once her eye caught sight of some showy purple 
blossoms. 

“ Eldorado yo he trovado ! ” 

she cried. “ I verily believe it is a sea-rocket.” She 
transferred it to her vasculum, and seated herself on a rock 
for a few minutes’ rest. She proceeded to undo her packet 
of sandwiches, singing to herself all the time, as was her 
habit when light-hearted and quite alone ; but the words 
that came into her head were not always so appropriate as 
on the occasion of her first visit to the beach ; and at the 
present moment she was proclaiming with all the emphasis 
befitting a second encore — 

“ Fo — r he’s going to marry Yum-Yum ” — 

when a sudden intuition made her look round, and, to her 
horror, she saw two men regarding her with an amused 
smile. 

One was elderly, ruddy, and commonplace ; the other 
was young, sallow, mournful, and interesting. Both carried 
vasculums a good deal more battered and weather-beaten 
than Mona’s own. 

She coloured up to the roots of her hair, and then made 
the best of the situation, laughing quietly, and proceeding 
with her sandwiches the while. 

The ruddy man lifted his hat with a friendly bow. 
‘ But for the nineteenth-century character of } r our song,” he 
said, “ I should have taken you for the nymph of the 
coast.” 

“ In a go-ahead county like this,” said Mona gravely, 
returning his bow, “ even the nymph of the coast is expected 
to keep pace with the times.” 

“ True,” he said. “ I had forgotten where I was. Has 
the nymph of the coast got anything interesting in her 
vasculum ? ” 

“ Nothing really rare, I fear, though I have found a 
good deal that is new to me. Oh, by the way, I found a 
plant of penny-cress in some waste ground near Kilwinnie. 
Is that common here ? ” 


THE BOTANISTS. 


113 


“ Thlaspi arvense ? ” he said sceptically, looking at his 
sallow companion. 

The younger man shook his head. “ I never saw it in 
the neighbourhood,” he said. 

“ I am quite open to conviction, of course,” said Mona, 
and, rummaging in her vasculum, she produced a bunch of 
f large, flat, green “ pennies.” 

“ Right,” chuckled the elder man triumphantly — “ see 
that?” 

“Y-e-s. It’s curious I never saw it before — and near 
Kil winnie, too. But it seems all right ; it is not likely to 
be a garden escape.” 

And they proceeded to compare specimens with much 
interest and enthusiasm. 

“We intended to go on a little farther,” said the 
elderly gentleman at last. “As you are botanising also, 
perhaps you will join us ? ” 

Mona assented gladly, and they walked together a few 
miles along the coast, before turning back towards Kil- 
winnie. 

“ I suppose you have done no microscopic botany ? ” 
said her friend suddenly. 

This, from Rachel’s point of view, was approaching 
dangerous ground; but she was never likely to see these 
men again. They did not look like natives. 

“ Yes, I have done a little,” said Mona. “ I have attend- 
ed a botany class.” 

“ Indeed ! May I ask where ? ” 

“ In London ” — and, as he still looked at her inquiringly, 
“ at University College,” she added. 

“ Oh l Then you have studied botany. But they did 
not teach you there to spot Thlaspi arvense ? ” 

“ No, I taught myself that before I began to study bot- 
any. I think it is a pity that that part of the subject is so 
much ignored.” 

“ But botany, as taught at present, is much more scien- 
tific. Old-fashioned botany — especially as taught to ladies 
— was a happy combination of pedestrianism and glorified 
stamp-collecting.” 

“ True,” said Mona, “ and if one had to choose between 
the old and the new, one would choose the new without a 
moment’s hesitation ; but, on the other hand, it does give 
8 


114 


MONA MACLEAN. 


the enemy occasion to blaspheme, when a man can tell them 
that a flower is composite, proterandrous, syngenesious, &c., 
hut when he is quite unable to designate it by its simple 
name of dandelion.” 

Both the men laughed. 

When they reached Kilwinnie, the elder of the two 
stopped and held out his hand. 

“ I am sorry we cannot offer to see you home,” he said ; 

“ but the fact is, dinner is waiting for me now at the inn, 
and I start for London to-night. If you are ever in town 
again, my wife and I will be only too pleased to see you,” 
and he handed her his card. 

He did not ask her name, for the simple reason that he 
had already seen it in the beginning of her Flora. 

When Mona looked at the card, she found that she had 
been spending the afternoon with a scientist of European j 
celebrity. 

“If redbeard be that,” she said, “ what must blackbeard 
be, and why did he not give me his card too ? ” 

She walked on at a good pace, realizing only when she 
saw the lights of Kirkstoun, how dark it had grown. As 
she passed the post-office she saw a knot of men assembled at 
the counter ; for, in an unobtrusive way, the Kirkstoun post- 
office — which was also a flourishing grocer’s shop — served 
many of the purposes of a club. This it did the more effec- 
tually, as the only female assistant was a wrinkled and spite- 
ful old woman, whose virgin ears could not be injured by 
any ordinary masculine gossip. 

Scarcely had Mona left this rendezvous behind her when 
she was overtaken by Dr. Dudley. 

“ You are very late,” he said simply. 

“ Yes, but I have had a glorious time.” 

“ You are tired ? ” 

“ Healthily tired.” 

“ Cobwebs all gone ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! In fact, they had begun to go when I saw 
you yesterday, or I could not have spoken of them.” 

“ Boor little soul ! ” he thought to himself, wondering < 
how she escaped melancholia in the narrow limits of her 
life. 

“ You did not really mind those vulgar girls yesterday,” 
he went on awkwardly, after a pause. 


THE BOTANISTS. 


115 


For a moment she could not think what he was refer- 
ring to. 

“ Oh no,” she said at last, with wide-open eyes of won- 
der. How could I ? They don’t come into my world at all. 
Neither their opinion of me, nor their want of manners, can 
possibly affect me.” 

“ That is certainly the sensible way to look at it.” 

“ I don’t know, after all, whether it is the right way. 
Probably their vulgarity is all on the surface. I believe 
there are thousands of girls like that who only want some 
large-souled woman to take them by the hand, and draw out 
their own womanhood. How can they help it if their life 
has been barren of ideals ? ” 

He made a mental survey of the women in the neigh- 
bourhood, in search of some one capable of performing such 
a function. 

“ What a pity it is that they cannot see you as you are ! ” 
he said, looking at the dim outline of her face. “ Large- 
souled women do not grow on every hedge.” 

“ Perhaps it would be more to the purpose if I could see 
myself as they see me,” she answered thoughtfully. “ After 
all, with the honestest intentions, we scan our lives as we do 
our own poetry, laying stress on the right syllables, and pass- 
ing lightly over a halting foot. You force me to confess 
that I said some very ill-natured things about those girls 
after they were gone ; and I had not their excuse of being 
still in the chrysalis stage. They may make better butter- 
flies than I yet. Even a woman can never tell how a girl is 
going to turn out.” 

He laughed. “What is bred in the bone—” he said, 
“ Their mother is my ideal of all that is vulgar and pre- 
tentious.” 

“ Poor children ! ” said Mona. 

« And the best of it is,” he said, “ that she began life as a 
small — ” 

He stopped short and the blood rushed over his face. 

“ Well,” said Mona quietly, “ as a what?” 

“Milliner” he said, kicking a stone violently out of his 
way, in a tempest of anger at his own stupidity. 

“ You don’t mean to say,” said Mona, “ that you were 
afraid of hurting my feelings? Oh, please give me credit 
for having the soul of a human being 1” 


116 


MONA MACLEAN. 


He walked with her to her own door that night. It was 
after dark, to be sure, but I am inclined to think that he 
might have done the same had it been noonday ; and when 
he got home he asked his aunt no more questions about 
“ Miss Simpson’s niece.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“JOHN HOGG’S MACHINE.” 

“ He is curiously simpatico ,” said Mona to herself the 
next morning. “ I don’t know that I ever knew any one 
with whom I felt less necessity for clearing up my fog-be- 
swathed utterances, or for breaking down my brilliant meta- 
phors in milk ; it is pleasant to be able to walk straight off 
into the eternals with somebody; but I like a man to 
be more of a healthy animal.” And a sunshiny memory 
passed through her mind of the “ moral antiseptic,” the dear 
brotherly Sahib. 

“ I wonder who the other botanist was ? ” she went on 
presently, tumbling her pillows into a more comfortable posi- 
tion. “ The Professor’s assistant perhaps, or possibly a 
professor himself. He certainly was a scientist, every inch 
of him, from his silent tongue to the tips of his ill-groomed 
fingers.” 

It would have surprised her not a little if she could have 
seen the subject of her speculations an hour or so later. He 
was sitting behind the counter of a draper’s shop in Kil- 
winnie, his head resting on his hand in an attitude of the 
deepest dejection. Mona was perfectly right when she 
declared him to be every inch a scientist ; he was more so 
perhaps than even the great professor himself ; but the lines 
had fallen unto him in a narrow little world, where his 
studies were looked upon as mere vagaries, on a par with 
kite-making and bullet-casting, where his college classes at 
St. Rules had to be paid for out of his own carefully saved 
pocket-money, where his experiments and researches had to 
be conducted in a tumble-down summer-house at the foot of 


“JOHN HOGG’S MACHINE.” H7 

the old garden, and where, at the age of twenty, he was left 
an orphan with four grown-up sisters to support. 

Had they all lived thirty years later, or in a less secluded 
part of the world, the sisters would probably have looked 
out for themselves, and have left their brother to make a 
great name, or to starve in a garret over his weeds and his 
beetles, according as the fates might decree ; but such an 
idea never occurred to any one of the five, although the 
sisters had all received sufficient instruction in music, paint- 
ing, and French, to make them rather hard to please in the 
matter of husbands. 

The lad was cut out for patient, laborious, scientific re- 
search, and he knew it; but with four sisters on one’s hands, 
and a balance at the bank scarcely large enough to meet 
doctor’s bills and funeral expenses, scientific research seems 
sadly vague and indefinite, while a well-established drapery 
business is at least “ something to lippen to.” 

So he laid aside his plans, and took up the yardstick as a 
mere matter of course, without any posing and protestations 
even to himself. 

He so far asserted himself, that the microscope, the hortus 
siccus , and the neat pine-wood cabinets, took up a place of 
honour in the house, instead of skulking in out-of-the-way 
corners ; but now that fifteen years had passed away, al- 
though he was known to all the initiated as the greatest liv- 
ing authority on the fauna and flora of the eastern part of 
the county, he was beginning to pursue his hobby at rarer 
intervals and in a more dilettante spirit. Now and then 
when some great scientist came into the neighbourhood, and 
appealed to him as to the habitat of this and as to the proba- 
ble extinction of that, when his personal convoy on an ex- 
pedition was looked upon as an honour and a great piece of 
luck, when in the course of walks round the coast he drank 
in the new theories of which the scientific world was talking, 
he felt some return of the old fire ; but in the main, to the 
great relief of his sisters, he was settling down into a good 
and useful burgher, with a place on the town council and on 
sundry local boards, with an excellent prospect of the Pro- 
vostship, and with no time for such frivolities as butterfly- 
hunting and botanising. 

When his acquaintances questioned him, he always stat- 
ed his conviction that he had chosen, on the whole, the bet- 


118 


MONA MACLEAN. 


ter part ; but he never gave any account of hours like the 
present, in which he loathed the very thought of civic hon- 
ours and dignity, and in which he painted to himself in 
glowing colours the life that might have been. 

He was thinking much just now of the burly old pro- 
fessor whose visit he had keenly enjoyed ; and more even 
than of the professor he was thinking of Mona Maclean. 
All things are relative in life. Scores of men had met 
Mona who had scarcely looked at her a second time. She 
might be nothing and nobody in the great bright world of 
London ; but into this man’s dark and lonely life she had 
come like a meteor. He could scarcely have told what it 
was that had fascinated him. It was partly her bright 
young face, though he dreaded good-looking women ; partly 
her light-hearted song, though he scorned frivolous women ; 
partly her botany, though he laughed at learned women ; 
and partly her frank outspoken manner, though he hated 
forward women. She bore no smallest resemblance to the 
mental picture that had sometimes floated vaguely before 
him of a possible helpmeet for him, and yet, and yet — look 
where he would, he could see her sitting on that rock, with 
all the light of the dancing waves in her eyes, — the veritable 
spirit of the coast as the professor had said. He even found 
himself trying to hum in a very uncertain bass, 

“ For he’s going to marry Yum- Yum ; ” 

but this was a reductio ad absurdum , and with a heavy 
frown he proceeded to make out some bills. 

It never occurred to him to question that she was far 
out of his reach. Anybody, he thought, could see at a 
glance that she was a lady, in a different sense from that in 
which his sisters bore the name. It was right and fitting 
that the great professor should give her his card, but who 
was he — the draper of Kilwinnie — that he should suggest 
another meeting ? 

But the second meeting was nearer than either he or 
Mona anticipated. 

“ We’re going to take tea with Auntie Bell this after- 
noon,” said Rachel next day. “ Mr. Hogg is going into 
Kilwinnie on business, and he says if we don’t mind wait- 
ing half an hour in the town, he will drive us on to Bal- 


JOHN HOGG’S MACHINE.’ 


119 


birnie. I want to buy a couple of mats at Mr. Brown’s ; 
you can depend on the quality there better than anywhere 
here or in Kirkstoun; and we’ll just wait in the shop till 
Mr. Hogg is ready.” 

“But can he spare the time? ’’asked Mona uneasily. 
She knew that Rachel could quite well afford to hire a trap 
now and then. 

“ Oh, he’s always glad to have a crack with Auntie Bell, 
not to say a taste of her scones and cream. She is a great 
hand at scones.” 

This was magnanimous on Rachel’s part, for her own 
scones were tough and heavy, and — though that, of course, 
she did not know — constituted one of the minor trials of 
Mona’s life. 

“ But, dear,” said Mona, “ we are neglecting the shop 
dreadfully between us.” 

“ Oh, Sally can mind it all right when she’s cleaned 
herself in the afternoon. She is only too glad of a gossip 
with anybody. It is not as if it was for a constancy like ; 
this is our last call in the meantime. Now the folks will 
begin to call on us, and some of them will ask us to tea.” 

Mona tried to smile cordially, but the prospect was not 
entrancing. 

About half-past two, Mr. Hogg came round in his 
“ machine.” Now “ machine,” as we all know, is a radical 
and levelling word, and in this case it was a question of lev- 
elling up, not of levelling down, for Mr. Hogg’s machine 
was simply a tradesman’s cart. It was small, to be sure, 
and fairly new and fresh, and nicely varnished, but no one 
could look at it and doubt that it was what Lucy would 
have called a “ common or garden ” cart. Rachel and 
Mona got in with some difficulty, and they started off along 
the Kirkstoun road. Here they met Dr. Dudley. His 
short-sighted eyes would never have recognised them had 
not Rachel leaned forward and bowed effusively ; then he 
lifted his hat and passed on. 

They rattled through the streets of Kirkstoun, past the 
post-office, the tannery, the Baptist chapel, and other build- 
ings of importance; and then drove out to Kilwinnie, 
where Mr. Hogg politely deposited them at Mr. Brown’s 
door. 

Here, then, Mona saw her “ professor ” measuring out a 


120 


MONA MACLEAN. 


dress length of lilac print for a waiting servant-girl, and here 
the draper saw his fairy princess, his spirit of the coast, 
alighting with as much grace as possible from J ohn Hogg’s 
cart. 

Mr. Brown knew Rachel Simpson. She stopped occa- 
sionally to purchase something from him on her way to 
Auntie Bell’s ; his sisters often amused themselved by laugh- 
ing at her dress, and the traveller told him comical stories 
about the way in which she kept shop. 

For it must be clearly understood that Mr. Brown’s shop 
was a very different thing from Rachel Simpson’s. It was 
well stocked with substantial goods, and was patronised by 
all the people round about who really respected themselves. 
It was no place for “ bargains ” in the modern sense of the 
word. It was a commercial eddy left behind by the tide in 
days when things were expected to wash and to wear. There 
was no question here of “ locking the door, and letting folks 
see that you did not require to keep the shop.” A place 
like this must, on the face of it, be the chief aim and end of 
somebody’s existence. 

Rachel’s descent from the cart was a somewhat tedious 
process, but at length it was accomplished successfully, and 
Mr. Hogg drove away, promising to return for them in half 
an hour. 

Poor Rachel was not a little flattered by the draper’s 
cordial greeting. Leaving the “ young man ” to do up the 
print, he came forward, with stammering, uncertain words 
indeed, but with a beaming smile and outstretched hand. 
And he might be Provost next year ! 

“ This is my cousin, Miss Maclean,” she said. 

Mr. Brown looked absolutely petrified. 

“ I think we have met before,” said Mona, not a little 
surprised herslf, taking his offered hand. “ This is one of 
the gentlemen, dear, who helped me with my plants.” 

“ Oh,” said Rachel, rather blankly. 

It had required all her “ manners ” to keep her from giv- 
ing Mona a candid opinion of the common weeds which 
were the sole fruit of a long day’s ramble, and Rachel had a 
very poor opinion of any man who could occupy himself 
with such trash. But, to be sure, he was a good draper — 
and he might be Provost next year ! 

And then he was so very cordial and friendly — that in 


JOHN HOGG’S MACHINE. 


121 


itself would have covered a multitude of sins. As soon as 
Rachel had made up her mind about the mats, he hastened 
up-stairs, and returned with a stammering invitation from 
his sisters. Would Miss Simpson and her cousin come up to 
the drawing-room and wait there? When Mona came to 
know a little more of the Brown menage , she wondered how 
in the world he had ever succeeded in getting that invita- 
tion. 

But up-stairs they went, and were graciously received by 
the sisters. Mr. Brown was wildly happy, and utterly un- 
able to show himself to any advantage. He wandered aim- 
lessly about, showing Mona this and that, and striving vainly 
to utter a single sentence consecutively. 

“ Can’t you have tea ? ” he said in a stage whisper to his 
sister. 

“ Oh, thank you,” interposed Rachel with a somewhat 
oleaginous smile, “ it’s very kind, I’m sure, but we’re on our 
way to Mrs. Easson’s, and we won’t spoil our appetites.” 

“ Are you going to be here long ? ” said the draper to 
Mona. 

“ At Borrowness ? A few months, I expect.” 

“ Then you’ll be doing some more botanising ? ” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ There’s some very nice things a little bit farther round 
the coast than we went the other day. Would you come 
some time with my sister and me ? ” 

“ I should be very glad indeed,” said Mona warmly. “ It 
is an immense advantage to go with some one who knows 
the neighbourhood.” 

“ Well, we will arrange the day— later on,” and he sighed; 
« but it won’t do to wait too long now.” 

At this moment Mr. Hogg rattled up to the door, and 
the draper went down and helped his visitors into the cart. 

“ Why, I declare he’s getting to be quite a lady’s man,” 
said Rachel when they were well out of hearing. “ I won- 
der what his sisters would say if he was to get married after 

all.” . . . 

Meanwhile the Browns discussed their visitors. 

“ It’s last year’s mantle,” said Number one, “ but the 
bonnet’s new.” 

“ And what a bonnet ! ” said Number two.. 

“ And she still shows two or three good inches of red 


122 


MONA MACLEAN. 


wrist between her glove and her sleeve,” said Number three. 
“ Nobody would think that girl was her cousin.” 

“ She’s not at all pretty,” said Number four, “ but she’s 
quite ladylike. Do you know what she is, Philip ? ” 

“ I don’t,” he said nervously, “ but I fancy she must be 
a teacher or something of that kind. She has been very 
well educated.” 

“Ah, that would account for it,” said Number two. 
“ It must be a nice change for her to come and stay with 
Miss Simpson.” 

The draper stood at the window counting up his happi- 
ness. There was not a snobbish line in his nature, and 
Mona was not any the less a fairy princess in his eyes be- 
cause she seemed suddenly to have come within his reach. 
He knew his sisters did not want him to marry, and he was 
grateful to them now for having crushed in the bud certain 
little fancies in the past ; but if he once made up his mind, 
— he laughed to himself as he thought how little their re- 
monstrances would weigh with him. Of course there was a 
great chance that so bright and so clever a girl might re- 
fuse him ; but fifteen years of his sisters’ influence had not 
taught him to exaggerate this probability, and in that part 
of the country there is a strong superstition to the effect 
that a woman teacher is not likely to refuse what is com- 
monly known as “ an honest man’s love.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AUNTIE BELL. 

The slanting rays of the afternoon sun were throwing 
the old farmhouse, with its goodly barns and well-built 
stacks, into mellow lights and warm brown shadows, when 
Mr. Hogg’s pony drew up at the garden-gate. Before they 
had time to get down, Auntie Bell came out to greet them, 
— such a queer little woman, bent half double, and peering 
up at her visitors through her gold spectacles with keen 
expressive eyes. There was force of character in every line 


AUNTIE BELL. 


123 


of her face and figure, even in the dowdy cap, the grey 
wincey gown, and snow-white apron. 

“ Why, it’s Rachel Simpson,” she said. “ Come awa’ 
ben. Dick ’ll tak’ the powny.” 

“ This is my cousin, Miss Maclean,” said Rachel. 

“ Mona Maclean,” corrected the owner of the name. 

Auntie Bell gripped her hand and studied her face with 
as little regard to her feelings as if she had been a horse or 
a cow, the furrow on her own brow deepening the while. 

“ Eh, but she’s like her father,” she said. “ The mooth 
an’ the chin — ” 

“ Yes,” said Rachel, shortly. The subject of Mona’s 
father was not a congenial one. 

“ What w’y are ye no’ mairrit yet ? ” continued Auntie 
Bell, severely, still maintaining her grasp of Mona’s hand. 

“‘Advanced women don’t marry, sir, she said,’ ” were 
the first words that passed through Mona’s mind, but she 
paraphrased them. “We don’t marry now,” she said. “ It’s 
gone out of fashion.” 

The muscles of Auntie Bell’s face relaxed. 

“ Hoot awa’,” she said. “ Wait ye till a braw young man 
comes alang — ” 

“ You will dance at my wedding then, won’t you ?” 

“ That will I ! ” and Auntie Bell executed a momentary 
pas seul on the spot. 

She stopped abruptly and drew down her brows with all 
her former gravity. 

“ I hope ye’re diver,” she said. 

“ Thank you. As folks go nowadays, I think I am 
pretty fair.” 

“ Ye had need be, wi’ a faither like } 7 on.” 

“ Ah,” said Mona, with sudden gravity, “ I was not 
thinking of him. I am not clever as he was.” 

“ Ha, na, I was thinkin’ that. He was ” — this with great 
emphasis — “ as fine a mon as iver I saw.” 

“ But did you know him? I did not know that he was 
ever in this part of the country.” 

“ Ay was he ! He cam’ ae day, it may be five an’ twinty 
year syne — afore there was ony word o’ you, maybe. He 
was keen to see the hoose whaur his faither was born, and 
we’d a crack aboot the auld folks, him and me. Rachel 
Simpson was at Dundee then. My word ! Ye’d hae thocht 


124 


MONA MACLEAN. 


I’d been the finest leddy at the Towers. But come awa’ 
ben, an’ I’ll mask the tea,” 

“ Ye’ll find the place in an awfu’ disorder,” she went on 
to Rachel as they entered the spotless parlour. “ I’m that 
hadden doon o’ the hairvest, I’ve no’ got my back strauchten’d 
up sin’ it commenced ” ; and she bustled in and out of the 
kitchen getting the tea. 

“ You don’t let the girls do enough,” said Rachel. 

“ The lassies ! Hoot awa’. I canna bide their slatternly 
w ys i’ the hoose. I’m best pleased when they’re oot-bye ” 

“ You havena been to see me for many a long day.” 

“ Me ! I’ve no’ been onywhere ; I’ve no’ seen onybody. 
I’ve no’ been to the kirk sin’ I canna tell ye whan. What 
w’y would I ? The folk wad a’ be lauchin’ at daft, auld 
Auntie Bell wi’ her bent back. The meenister was here 
seein’ me. He cam’ that day o’ the awfu’ rain, his umberella 
wrang side oot, an’ his face blue wi’ the cauld — ye ken what 
a thin, feckless body he is. ‘ Come awa’, ye puir cratur,’ 
says I, ‘ come awa ’ben tae the fire.’ An’ he draws himsel’ 
up, an’ says he, 4 Why say, poor creature ? — like that, ye ken 
— ‘ why say, poor creature ? ’ ” And Auntie Bell clapped 
her hand on her knee, and laughed at the recollection. 

At this moment Mr. Hogg and Auntie Bell’s husband — 
a person of no great account — passed the window on their 
way into the house. 

“ Come awa’ tae yer tea, Mr. Hogg. Hoot, Dauvid, awa’ 
an’ pit on anither coat. Ye’re no’ fit tae speak tae the 
leddies.” 

David meekly withdrew. 

“We were in seeing the Browns,” said Rachel, com- 
placently. “ They were wanting us to stay to tea.” 

“Ay! I’ve no’ seen them this mony a day.” 

“ How is he getting on, do you know, in the way of 
business ? ” asked Mr. Hogg. 

Auntie Bell brought the palm of her hand emphatically 
down on the table. 

“A’ thing i’ that shop is guid,” she said. “ I’m perfectly 
convinced o’ that ; but ye can get things a deal cheaper i’ 
the toon nor ye can wi*’ Maister Brown, an’ folks think o’ 
naethin’ bat that. I aye deal wi’ him mysel’. He hasna 
just a gift for the shop-keepin’, but he’s been mair wise-like 
lately, less taen up wi’ his butterflies an’ things.” 


DR. DUDLEY. 


125 


Before her visitors had finished tea, Auntie Bell was 
hard at work, in spite of a mild remonstrance from Rachel, 
packing a fat duck and some new-laid eggs for them to 
take home with them. Something of the kind was the in- 
variable termination of Rachel’s visits, but she would not 
have thought it “ manners ” to accept the basket without a 
good deal of pressing. 

Mr. Hogg was beginning to get impatient before the 
“ ladies ” rose to go. 

“ I’ll see ye intae the cairt,” said Auntie Bell to Mona, 
when the first farewells had been said. “ Rachel ’ll come 
whan she gits on her bannet.” 

As soon as they were in the garden, the old woman laid 
her hand impressively on Mona’s arm. 

“ Are ye onything weel pit up wi’ Rachel ? ” she whis- 
pered. 

“ Oh yes, indeed.” 

Auntie Bell shook her head. “ It’s no’ the place for the 
like o’ you,” she said, and then further conversation was 
prevented by Miss Simpson’s appearance. 

“ Well, you’ll be in to see us soon,” she said. 

“ Eh, I daursay you’ll be here again first.” 

“/ will certainly,” said Mona. “ I mean to walk out and 
see you some day.” 

“ Hoot awa’, lassie. It’s ower far. Ye canna walk frae 
Borrowness. Tak’ the train — ” 

“ Can’t I ? ” laughed Mona, as Mr. Hogg drove off. 

“ Why, why, why,” she thought as they trotted down to 
Kilwinnie, “ did not the Fates give me Auntie Bell for my 
hostess instead of Rachel Simpson ? ” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

DR. DUDLEY. 

About a week after Mona’s visit to Auntie Bell, Dr. 
Dudley was sitting alone in the dining-room at Carlton 
Lodge. It was nearly midnight, and a terrific storm was 


126 


MONA MACLEAN. 


raging outside. One of the great trees at the foot of the 
garden had been blown down into the road, carrying with it 
a piece of the wall ; and the wind roared round the lonely 
house like a volley of artillery. 

Within, a bright wood-fire was reflected dimly on the 
oak wainscot, and a shaded lamp threw a brilliant light on 
scattered books and papers, shrouding the rest of the room ^ 
in suggestive shadows. 

Dr. Dudley rose to his feet, and kicked a foot-stool 
across the room. You would scarcely have recognised his 
face as the one that had smiled at Mona across the counter. 
The wind played on his nerves as if they had been an instru- 
ment, but he Avas not thinking of the storm. 

“ Three years more before I can begin to do a man’s work 
in the world,” he said, “and nearly thirty lie behind me ! 

It is enough to make one make tracks for the gold-fields to- 
morrow. What surety have I that all my life won’t drift, 
drift, drift away, as the last thirty years have done ? Upon 
my soul ” — he drew up the blind and looked out on the 
darkness, which only threw back his image and that of the 
room — “ I envy the poor devils who are called out to their 
patients in this tempest, for shilling or half-crown fees ! ” 

He was young, you see, but not very young, for, instead 
of indulging in further heroics, he bit" his lip and returned 
to his books and papers. “ Hier oder nirgends ist Amerika ! ” 
He drew down his brows, and read aloud from the mighty 
tome at his side, stopping now and then to add a few lines 
to the diagram before him. 

He held very strongly that, in addition to practical work, 
which was well nigh everything, there was only one way of 
mastering anything approaching an exact science. Firstly, 
get the best handbook extant ; secondly, read the diagrams 
only ; thirdly, read the diagrams, letterpress and all ; fourth- 
ly, read letterpress alone, constructing your own diagrams as 
you go. “ For after all,” he said, “ another man’s diagrams 
are but crutches at the best. It is only when you have as- 
similated a subject, and projected it again through the 
medium of your own temperament, that it is of any prac- 
tical use to you, or indeed has any actual existence for you 
personally.” 

His opinion ought to have been of some value, for the study 
of an exact science was by no means the work for which his 


DR. DUDLEY. 


127 


mind was best fitted ; and it is not those whom Nature has 
endowed with a “ royal road ” to the attainment of any sub- 
ject who are best able to direct their fellows. 

The clock was striking two when he closed his books and 
extinguished the lamp. It was not his custom to work so 
late ; he was oddly rational in such ways ; but he had learned 
by experience that to act on the principle that “ Hier Oder 
nirgends ist Amerika ” was the only cure — sometimes, alas ! 
not a very effectual one — for moods of depression and bitter 
self-reproach. 

The hurricane had raged for several days, but next morn- 
ing the sun shone down on a smiling innocent world, with 
a pleasant suggestion of eternal renewal . 

“ I am going for a long drive past Kilwinnie,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton at lunch. “ I am perishing for lack of fresh air ; 
and I want you to go with me, Ralph.” 

“ I am sorry I can’t,” he said, shortly. It must be con- 
fessed that Dr. Dudley was a man of moods. 

“ Oh, nonsense, Ralph ! You have poked over those 
horrid books for days. You refused to come the last time 
I asked you, and that was centuries ago, before the storm 
began. I can’t have you always saying 4 No.’ ” 

“It is a pity I did not learn to say ‘No’ a little earlier 
in life,” he said gloomily ; and then, with a dismal sense 
that the old lady was mainly dependent on him for moral 
sunshine, he got up and laid his hand on her shoulder — 

« ‘ 1 have been the sluggard, and must ride apace, 

For now there is a lion in the way,’ ” 

he said, striving to speak cheerfully. 

“ I declare, Ralph, any one would think, to hear you 
talk, that you were a worn-out roue. What would have be- 
come of me for the last two years if you had been in busy 
practice ? You know quite well that one might walk from 
Land’s End to John o’ Groats in search of your equal in 
general culture. Professor Anderson was saying to me only 
the other day that it was impossible to find you tripping. 
Whether the conversation turned on some unheard-of lake 
in Central Africa, or the philosophy of Hegel, or Coptic 
hymnology, or Cistercian hill architecture of the Transition 
Period, you were as much at home as if it was the weather 


128 


MONA MACLEAN. 


that was under discussion. I told him he might have in- 
cluded the last new thing in bonnets.” 

“ No, no,” said Ralph, laughing in spite of himself. 
“That was too bad. You know I draw the line there. 
These things are too wonderful for me.” 

“ But you will come with me, won’t you ? ” 

“ You coaxing old humbug ! ” he said, affectionately. 
“ I suppose I must. It will only mean burning a little more 
of the midnight oil. What havoc you must have wrought 
when you were young, if you understood a man’s weakness 
for flattery as well as you do now ! ” 

“Ah, but I did not,” she responded quietly, having 
gained her point. “ It takes a lifetime to fathom it.” 

He laughed again, kissed her on the forehead, and con- 
sented to have some tart after all. People were rather at 
fault who thought the old aunt poor company for the clever 
young doctor. 

In due time the sleek old coachman brought round the 
sleek old horse, and they set off at a quiet trot along the 
level highroad. 

“We must stop at Kirkstoun and speak to Hutchison 
about getting the wall put up,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “ Well, 
it is like losing an old friend to see that tree ! But we shall 
be at no loss for firewood during the winter. We shall 
have some royal Yule-logs, well seasoned, to welcome you 
back.” 

“ Do,” he said. “ There is nothing like them after 
meagre London fires: and you know we must make the 
most of my Christmas visit. If you keep pretty strong, I 
must not come back till midsummer, when my examination 
is over. It won’t do to come a cropper at my time of life. 
Just look at that wheat ! ” 

The harvest had promised well before the storm began, 
but the corn which was still uncut had been beaten down 
level with the ground, and the “ stooks ” were sodden with 
rain. 

“ Most of the corn will have to be cut with the sickle 
now,” said the old ladv. “ Next Sunday won’t be 4 stooky 
Sunday ’ after all.” 

They drove on past Kilwinnie, discussing Dr. Dudley’s 
approaching departure, and the date of his return. 

“ Why, that surely is a strange steamer,” said Mrs. Ham- 


DR. DUDLEY. 129 

ilton suddenly. “ I wonder if she has been disabled. Can 
you see ? ” 

“ There is no use asking me about anything that is 
more than a yard off,” he said. “ I have left my eyes at 
home.” 

She handed him a field-glass, and he studied the vessel 
carefully. 

“ I don’t know her from the Ark,’* he said, “ but that is 
not surprising.” 

Before returning the glass, he swept it half absently 
along the coast, and he vaguely noticed two figures — a 
man’s figure and a woman’s — stooping towards the ground. 

He would have thought nothing of it, but the man’s hat 
was off, and — standing alone as they were on the sandy 
dunes — they suggested to Dudley’s mind the figures in 
Millet’s “ Angelus.” He laughed at the fancy, focussed the 
glass correctly, and looked at them again. 

Just then the woman straightened herself up, and stood 
in silhouette against sea and sky. He would have known 
that lithe young form anywhere ; but — all-important ques- 
tion — who was the man? Dudley subjected the uncon- 
scious figure to a searching examination, but in vain. To 
his knowledge he had never seen “ the fellow ” before. 

Mrs. Hamilton unwittingly came to his assistance. She 
took the glass from him, and examined the vessel herself. 

“ No,” she said, “ I don’t know her at all. I expect she 
is coming in for repairs. Why, I believe that is Mr. Brown, 
the draper at Kilwinnie. You know he is quite a remark- 
able botanist, a burning and shining light — under a bushel. 
I suppose that is one of his sisters with him. They say he 
is never seen with any other woman.” 

“ Confound his impudence ! ” muttered Dudley involun- 
tarily. 

“Why, Ralph, what do you mean? You talk to me 
about ‘ the effete superstitions of an ancient gentry ’ ; but 
even I have no objection to a well-conducted tradesman 
amusing himself with a scientific hobby in his spare time. 
It is a pity all young men of that class don’t do the same. 
It would keep them out of a lot of mischief.” 

“ Yes,” said Dudley rather vaguely. 

He did not enter into any explanation of his strangely 
inconsistent utterance ; but such silence on his part was too 
9 


130 


MONA MACLEAN. 


common an occurrence in his intercourse with his aunt to 
call for any remark. 

Dr. Dudley was not in love with Mona. It was his own 
firm conviction that he never would be really in love at all. 
All women attracted him who in any respect or in any de- 
gree approached his ideal; the devoted wife and mother, 
the artist, the beautiful dancer, the severe student, the ca- 
pable housewife, the eloquent platform speaker, — in all of 
these he saw different manifestations of the eternal idea of 
womanhood, and he never thought of demanding that one 
woman should in herself combine the characteristics of all. 
He was content to take each one for what she was, and to 
enjoy her in that capacity. He keenly appreciated the so- 
ciety of women ; but the moment he was out of their pres- 
ence — sometimes even before he was out of it — he found 
himself analysing them as calmly as if they were men. Yet 
‘ analyse ’ is scarcely the right word to use, for Dr. Dudley 
read character less by deliberate study than by a curious 
power of intuition, which few would have predicated from 
a general knowledge of his mind and character. 

Mona would have been surprised at that time had she 
known how much truer was his estimate of her than was 
that of the Sahib. Almost at the first glance, he had un- 
derstood something of both her simplicity and her complex- 
ity, her reserve and her unconventionality ; almost at the 
first interview, he had realised that, whatever might be the 
case in the future, at present the idea of sex simply did not 
exist for her. She might well call him simpatico. He was 
appreciative almost to the point of genius. 

Certainly no woman had ever attracted him precisely as 
Mona did. She attracted him so much that he had been 
fain to hold his peace about her, and to wish that she were 
not “ Miss Simpson’s niece.” And yet there was a pathos 
and a piquancy about her, in her dingy surroundings, which 
were not without their charm, and which appealed to a la- 
tent sense of the fatherly in him, the very existence of 
which he had scarcely suspected, for Dr. Dudley was essen- 
tially a “ college man.” 

“ Surely, surely,” he thought as he enjoyed his after- 
dinner cigar in his tiny smoking-room, “ she would never 
look at that fellow. She could not be such a fool. If she 


LEAVES OF GRASS.’ 


131 


had lived fifty years ago it would have been all en regie. 
She would have married him as a matter of course, and an 
excellent match for her too. She would in due course have 
‘ suckled fools and chronicled small-beer,’ and at the present 
moment her grand-daughters would be holding entrance 
scholarships for Newnham or Girton. 

“ But it’s not too late for her yet. If only that dear old 
aunt of mine were not such a confounded Conservative, I 
would get her to pay for Miss Maclean’s education. By 
Jove ! it would be education in her case, and not mere in- 
r struction, as it is with most of the learned women one 
meets ; but even if my old lady had the money to spare, she 
would infinitely rather give Miss Maclean her linen and her 
best bedroom furniture, and bestow her with a blessing on 
the draper ! ” 

It did not occur to him to doubt that Mona was practi- 
cally a fixture at Borrowness. His aunt had certainly spoken 
as if she were, on the one occasion when Mona had been 
mentioned between them. In truth, the old lady had taken 
for granted that he was referring to the real original niece, 
of whose departure for America she had never even heard ; 
and Ralph knew no one else in the neighbourhood who was 
at all likely to give him incidental information about Miss 
Simpson’s assistant. She must of course have been brought 
up elsewhere ; so much at least he could tell from her ac- 
cent; and, for the rest, he had always maintained that, in 
these latter days, the daughters of lower middle-class people 
stand a better chance of a good education than any other 
girls in the community ; it was not altogether marvellous if 
one in a thousand made a good use of it. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“ LEAVES OF GRASS.” 

The next day, while Mrs. Hamilton was enjoying her 
afternoon nap, Dudley seated himself as usual with hit 
books ; but his head ached, and he soon gave up the attemps 
to study. 


132 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ For every hour I work to-day, I shall waste two to- 
morrow,” he said ; and taking a volume of poetry from the 
shelf, he strode down to the beach. 

Other people besides Mona knew of “ Castle Maclean ” ; 
perhaps some people had even discovered her predilection 
for it. Dudley reached the spot in about half the time that 
she would have taken, and scrambled up the huge uneven 
steps. There, comfortably ensconced at the top, sat the 
subject of his thoughts ; a sketch-book open on her lap, and 
a well-used, battered paint-box at her side. Dudley was too 
much of an artist to dabble in colours himself, but he knew 
one paint-box from another, and he was duly impressed. 

“ I beg your pardon ! ” he said. “ So you know this 
place ? ” 

“ It is my private property,” she said with serene dignity, 
very different from her bright, alert manner in the shop — 
“ Castle Maclean.” 

He bowed low. “ Shall I disturb you if I stay ? ” 

“ Not in the least.” She put her head on one side, and 
critically examined her sky. “ Not unless your hat abso- 
lutely comes between me and my subject.” 

“ Change in the weather, is not it ? ” 

“ Has it not been glorious ! ” she said enthusiastically, 
laying down her brush. “ This rocky old coast was in its 
element. It was something to live for, to see those great 
waves dashing themselves into gigantic fountains of spray.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you were down here? ” 

“ Every minute that I could spare. Why not ? A wet- 
ting does one no harm in a primitive world like this.” 

She glanced at his book and went on with her painting. 
Neither of them had come there to talk, and why should 
they feel called upon to do it ? 

“ This is scarcely a lady’s book,” he said — though he 
would not have thought this remark necessary to a “ Girton 
girl ” — “ but, if I may, I think I could find one or two things 
that you might like to hear.” 

She smiled, well pleased. She had not forgotten how 

“ Build thee more stately mansions, 0 my soul,” 

had rolled out in his musical bass. 

He read on for half an hour or so. Mona soon forgot 
her sketch and sat listening, her head resting on her hand. 


LEAVES OF GRASS/ 


133 


He closed the book abruptly; he wanted no verbal 
thanks. 

“ And now,” he said, “ for my reward. May I look at 
your sketches ? ” 

She coloured awkwardly. How could she show them ? 
The scraps from Norway, and Italy, and Saxon Switzerland, 
might be explained ; but what of the memory sketches of 
“ the potent, grave, and reverend signiors ” who had exam- 
ined her at Burlington House? What of the caricature, 
which had amused the whole School, of Mademoiselle Lucy 
undergoing a Viva ? What of her chef d' oeuvre, the study 
of the dissecting-room? 

“ I promised Rachel that I would keep the dreadful 
secret,” she said ironically to herself, “ and I am not going 
to break my word.” But it cost her an effort to refuse. 
Some of the sketches were, in their way, undeniably clever, 
and she would have enjoyed showing them to him; and, 
moreover, she intensely disliked laying herself open to a 
charge of false modesty. 

“ I am sorry to seem so churlish,” she said, “ but I would 
rather not show you the book.” 

He was surprised, but her tone was absolutely final. 
There was nothing more to be said. 

“ If you like,” she said shyly, “ I will pay you back in a 
poor counterfeit of your own coin. I will read to you, and 
you shall close your eyes and listen to the plash of the waves. 
That is one of my ideals of happiness.” 

She took the book from the rock and began to read ; but 
he did not close his eyes. Her voice was in no way remark- 
able like his own ; but it w r as sympathetic, and her reading 
suggested much more than it expressed. He enjoyed listen- 
ing to her, and he was interested in her choice of a poem ; 
but he liked best to watch her mobile, sensitive face. 

“ One effort more, my altar this bleak sand ; 

That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, 

With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee, 
Light rare, untellable, lighting the very light, 

Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages,”— 

She seemed to be repeating the words from memory, not 
reading them ; for her eyes were fixed on the hills beyond 
the sea, and her face was kindled for the moment into abso- 


134 


MONA MACLEAN. 


lute beauty. Then, for the first time, a distinct thought 
passed through Dudley’s mind that he would like the 
mother of his children to have a face like that. 

“ She would make a man noble in spite of himself,” he 
thought ; but aloud he said — 

“ You knew that poem?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Did you know those I read?” 

“ Not all of them. I knew Vigil Strange and My Cap- 
tain .” 

There was silence between them for a few moments. 

“ Have you the smallest idea,” he asked suddenly, “ how 
you are throwing yourself away?” 

She coloured, and was about to answer, but just then a 
gust of wind caught a page of her sketch-book, and blew it 
over. 

She laughed, glad of an excuse for changing the subject. 

“ The Fates have apparently decreed,” she said, “ that 
you are to see this sketch,” and she held it out to him. 

It represented a red-cheeked, sonsy-faced girl, standing 
before a mirror, trying on a plain little bonnet. On ail 
sides were suggestions of flowers and feathers, and brilliant 
millinery ; and in the girl’s round eyes was an expression of 
positive horror. 

Beneath the picture Mona had written, “ Is life worth 
living?” 

Dudley laughed. 

“ That looks as if there ought to be a story connected 
with it,” he said. 

“ Only a bit of one,” and she gave him a somewhat cyn- 
ical account of her little scullery-maid. 

“I withdraw my remark,” he said gravely. “You are 
not throwing yourself away. Would that we were all using 
ourselves to as much purpose ! ” 

“ Don’t make me feel myself more of a fool than I do 
already.” 

“ Fool ! I was wishing there were a few more fools in 
the place to appreciate you — Ruskin for one ! ” 

“ I did try to comfort myself with recollections of Rus- 
kin,” she said, with a suspicion of tears in her laughter ; 
“ but I could only think of the bit about the crossing- 
sweeper and the hat with the feather.” 


LEAVES OF GRASS.’ 


135 


He smiled. “ You do Ruskin too much honour when 
you judge him by an isolated quotation,” he said. “I 
thought that distinction was reserved for the Bible.” 

“ But that is only the beginning of the story,” said Mona. 
“ I have had several orders since for similar bonnets — more 
from the mothers than from the girls themselves, I am sorry 
to say, — and among them the one that suggested the sketch. 
Have you ever seen Colonel Lawrence’s quaint old house- 
keeper up at the wood ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. Everybody knows the Colonel’s Jenny.” 

“ Her daughter went away to service some time ago, and 
came home to visit her mother the other day, with all her 
wages on her back, as Jenny expressed it, — such a poor, lit- 
tle, rosy-cheeked, tawdry bit of humanity ! The mother 
marched her off to me in high dudgeon, and ordered a bon- 
net ‘ like Polly’s at the Tower’s ’ ; and that is exactly how 
the poor child looked when she tried it on. I could have 
found it in my heart to beg her off myself. Talk of break- 
ing in a butterfly ! ” 

“ Yes,” he said. “ One is inclined to think that human 
butterflies should be allowed to be butterflies — till one sees 
them too near the candle ! ” 

“ If we knew whether it were really worth while trying 
to save them,” said Mona, “ I suppose we should indeed 
‘ know what God and man is ’ ; as it is, we can only act on 
impulse. But this little Maggie does not belong to the 
most puzzling class. She is a good little thing, after all. I 
should not wonder if she had the germ of a soul stowed 
away somewhere.” 

“ She is a Maggie,- is she ? ” he said, returning with a 
smile to the baby face in the picture. “ They are all Mag- 
gies here. One gets perfectly sick of the name.” 

“ Hoes one ? ” said Mona. “ Queen Margaret is a hero- 
ine of mine, and my very own saint to boot.” 

“ Are you a Margaret?” he said. “ You look like one. 
It is partly because the name is so beautiful that one resents 
that senseless ‘ Maggie.’ ” 

Mona was just going to say that with her it was only an 
unused second name ; but his face had grown very grave 
again, and she did not wish to jar on his mood. How little 
we can tell in life what actions or omissions will throw their 
light or shadow over our whole future ! 


136 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ What right have we,” he said musingly at last, “ to say 
what is normal and what is not ? How can we presume to 
make one ideal of virtue the standard for all ? Look round 
the world boldly — not through the medium of tinted glass 
— and choose at random a dozen types. If there be a God 
at all, it is awful to think of His catholicity ! ” 

Mona looked up with a smile. 

“ Forgive me, Miss Maclean ! ” he said. “ I have no 
right to talk like that.” 

“ Why not ? Is life never to be relieved by a strong pic- 
turesque statement? It takes a lot of conflicting utter- 
ances to make up a man’s Credo. W T hen I want neat, little, 
compatible sentences, I resort to my cookery-book. Did 
you think,” she added mischievously, “ that I would place 
you on a pedestal with Euskin and my Bible, and judge you 
by an isolated quotation ? ” 

He laughed, and then grew suddenly grave. 

“ Talking,” he said, “ is mein Verderben. That is why 
I have chosen a profession that will give me no scope for it 
— not that I seem likely to make much of the profession, 
now that it is chosen ! You see — my circumstances have 
been peculiar, and my education has been different in some 
respects from that of most men.” He hesitated, and then, 
without a word of introduction, urged by some irresistible 
impulse, he plunged into the story of his life. Perhaps he 
was anxious to see how it looked in the eyes of a capable 
woman ; certainly he regarded Mona as a wholly excep- 
tional being, in his intercourse with whom he was bound by 
no ordinary rules. 

“ I left school when I was sixteen,” he said, “ laden with 
prizes and medals and all that sort of thing. It was my 
misfortune, not my fault, that I had a good deal of money 
to spend on my education, and a free hand as to the spend- 
ing of it. I am inclined sometimes to envy fellows whose 
parents leave them no voice in the matter at all. 

“ I went first to Edinburgh University for three years, 
and took my M.A. There are worse degrees in the world 
than an Edinburgh M.A. It means no culture, no Univer- 
sity life, no rubbing up against one’s fellow-men ; but it 
does mean a solid foundation of all-round, useful informa- 
tion, which no man need despise, and which is not heavy 
enough to extinguish the slumbering fires of genius should 


LEAVES OF GRASS/ 


137 


they chance to lie beneath. Of course, it is impossible to 
tell a priori what will prove an education to any man. 

“ When I left Edinburgh, I announced my intention of 
going to Cambridge. The classical professor wanted me to 
go in for the classical tripos, and the mathematical profess- 
or urged me to stick to the 1 eternal,’ of which he believes 
mathematics to be the sole manifestation granted to erring 
humanity. But I was determined to have a go at Natural 
Science. There was a great deal of loose scientific talk in 
the air, and people seemed to make so much of a minimum 
of knowledge that I fancied three years of conscientious 
work would take a man straight in behind the veil. I 
went to work enthusiastically at first, while hope was strong, 
more quietly later when I realised that at most I might 
move back the veil an inch or two, while infinity lay behind ; 
that humanity might possibly in three hundred years ac- 
complish what I had hoped to do in three. Of course, I might 
have added my infinitesimal mite of labour and research, 
but I was not specially fitted for it. The difficulty all my 
life has been to find out what I was specially fitted for. 
However, I took my degree.” 

“ Tripos ? ” said Mona. 

“ Third Class,” he said contemptuously. “ But I was 
not reading for a place. And, indeed, I grew more in those 
three years than in any other three of my life. Possibly it 
was the life at Cambridge. Possibly I might have accom- 
plished more on the plains of Thibet.” 

He drew a long breath. He had wellnigh forgotten who 
his companion was, and talked on to give vent to his feel- 
ings. After all, it mattered little if she missed a point here 
and there. She would grasp as much of the spirit of the 
story as most confessors do. 

“ Well, then, I travelled for a couple of years. I studied 
at Heidelberg, and Gottingen, and Jena. I heard good 
music nearly every night, and I saw all the cathedrals and 
picture-galleries. Then I came home, determined to choose 
a profession. I chose Medicine, mainly for the reason I 
gave you, and I studied in London for the examinations of 
the colleges. Why did I not choose the University? 
Would that I had ! But you see I was past the age when 
boys 4 get up ’ a subject with ease, and walk through brill- 
iant examinations; and, moreover, in spite of a popular 


138 


MONA MACLEAN. 


superstition to the contrary effect, two years of travel and 
art, and music and philosophy, do not tend to furbish up a 
man’s mathematics and classics and natural science. 

“ Six months after I began to study I loathed Medicine. 
To use a favourite expression here, it was neither fish, flesh, 
fowl, nor guid red herrin’. It was neither art, science, 
literature, nor philosophy. It was a hideous pot-poiirri of 
all four, with a preponderating, overwhelming admixture of 
arrant humbug. Hitherto I had worked fairly well, but 
there had never been any moral value in my work. It was 
done con amove . Now that the amor failed, I scarcely worked 
at all. I suppose it was one of nature’s revenges that, as I 
had gone into a profession because it demanded silent work, 
I talked more in those years than at any other period of my 
life. I read all things rather than medicine, I moved in 
any society rather than the medical world, but I rubbed 
along somehow. I passed my first examination by a fluke, 
and I passed the second likewise. I never was at a loss for 
a brilliant theory to account for erroneous facts, and with 
some examiners that goes a long way. When it came to 
preparing for my Final, I hated surgery because I had 
scamped my anatomy. Medicine might have shared the 
same fate, but I had done a good deal of physiology in 
Gaskell’s laboratory at Cambridge — more than was necessary 
in fact — for the supposed connection between physiology and 
medicine is a purely fictitious one. The student has to take 
a header blindfold from the one to the other. It is almost 
incredible, but when I went up for my Final in due course, 
I did scrape through by the skin of my teeth. If ever any 
man got through those three examinations without a spill 
on the strength of less knowledge than I did, I should like 
to shake that man’s hand. He deserves to be congratulated. 

“ The next thing was to look out for a practice, or a 
locum tenancy, but, before doing so, I went down to Cam- 
bridge to visit some friends. While there I saw a good deal 
of M‘Diarmid, the Professor of Anatomy. I don’t know 
if you ever heard of him, but if ever a man made literal 
dry bones live, he does. Thoroughgoing to the soles of his 
boots — a monument of erudition — and yet with a mind 
open to fresh light as regards the minutest detail.” 

Mona flushed crimson, but fortunately he was not look- 
ing. This was indeed approaching dangerous ground. She 


LEAVES OF GRASS . 1 


139 


was strongly inclined to think that the professor in question 
was one of “ the potent, grave, and reverend signiors ” in 
her sketch-book. 

“ It was so odd,” continued Dudley. “ All my life, while 
other men walked in shadow, I had seemed to see the light 
of the eternal, but in medicine I had missed it absolutely. 
Ah, well ! one word will do for a thousand. I am afraid I 
wrote my 4 Sorrows of Werther ’ once more, for the last time 
in this world let us hope, and then I began all over again 
to work for a London degree.” 

He stopped with an unpleasant sensation of self-con- 
sciousness. “ And I wonder why I have inflicted all this on 
you,” he said a little coldly. 

44 1 think it was a grand thing to do — to begin over 
again,” said Mona. 44 You will make a magnificent doctor 
when you do take your degree, and none of those past years 
will be lost. You will be a famous professor yourself some 
day. How far have you got ? ” 

44 1 passed the Matriculation almost immediately, and 
the Preliminary Scientific six months after. In July, I go 
in for my Intermediate, and two years later comes my Final. 
Once the Intermediate is over, a load will be taken off my 
mind. It is all grist that comes to one’s mill after that, but 
it requires a little resolution to plod along side by side with 
mere schoolboys, as most of the students are.” 

44 It must be an excellent thing for the schoolboys.” 

She was wishing with all her heart that she could tell 
him her story in return for his. Why had she made that 
absurd promise to Rachel ? And what would Rachel think 
if she claimed permission to make an exception in Dr. 
Dudley’s favour? It was all too ridiculous, and when she 
began to think of it, she was inclined to wonder whether 
she really was the Mona. Maclean who had studied Medicine 
in London. 

44 Why, it is after five,” said Dudley suddenly, looking 
at his watch. 

Mona sprang to her feet, and then remembered with 
relief that, as Rachel was going out to tea, she need not be 
punctual. 

44 But I ought to have been in time to prevent her wear- 
ing the scarlet cap,” she thought with a pang of self-re- 


140 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Shall you go on with your sketch to-morrow ? ” asked 
Dudley, as they walked up to the road. 

“ To-morrow ? No ; my cousin is going to take me to 
St. Rules.” 

“ I thought Miss Simpson was your aunt ? ” 

“No, she is my father’s cousin — one of the very few 
relatives I have.” 

Dudley was relieved, he scarcely knew why. 

“ I might have known my old lady was not likely to 
know much about any one in the village,” he thought. 

“Have you never been to St. Rules?” he said aloud. 
“ That is a treat in store. Almost every stone in it has a 
history. But I have an appointment with my aunt in Kirk- 
stoun — I hate saying good-bye, don’t you ? ” 

“ I do.” 

“ I mean quite apart from the parting involved.” 

“ Oh, quite 1 ” 

He looked at her with curious eagerness, and then held 
out his hand. Apparently he had no objection to that. 

“Well, so long!” 

“ Sans adieu ! ” 

Mona sighed as she re-entered the dreary little sitting- 
room. However freely she might let the breezes of heaven 
blow through the house in Rachel’s absence, the rooms 
seemed to be as musty as ever five minutes after the win- 
dows had been shut. 

The autumn evenings were growing chilly, but the white 
curtains, by the laws of the Medes and Persians, had to re- 
main on duty a little longer ; and great as was Mona’s par- 
tiality for a good fire, the thermometer must have registered 
a very low figure indeed before she could have taken refuge 
in Sally’s kitchen — at any other time than on Saturday 
afternoon, immediately after the weekly cleaning. 

Tea was on the table. It had stood there since five 
o’clock. 

Mona sighed again. 

“ If one divides servants,” she said, “ into three classes 
— those who can be taught to obey orders in the spirit, those 
who can be taught to obey orders in the letter, and those 
who cannot be taught to obey orders at all — Sally is a bad 
second, with an occasional strong tendency to lapse into 


LEAVES OF GRASS . 1 


141 


the third. I wish she had seen fit to lapse into the third 
to-night.” 

She pushed aside the cold buttered toast, helped herself 
to overdraAvn tea, and glanced with a shiver at the shavings 
in the grate. In another moment her sorrows were for- 
gotten. Leaning against the glass shade of the gilt clock 
on the mantelpiece, smiling at her across the room, stood a 
fair, fat, friendly budget in Lady Munro’s handwriting. 

“ Gaudeamus igitur ! ” Mona seized the tea-cosy, tossed 
it up to the ceiling, and caught it again with an affectionate 
squeeze. 

How delightful that the letter should come when she 
was alone ! Now she could get the very maximum of en- 
joyment out of it. She stalked it stealthily, lest it should 
“ vanish into thin air ” before her eyes, took hold of it gin- 
gerly, examined the post-mark, smelt the faint perfume 
which, more than anything else, reminded her of the beau- 
tiful gracious woman in the rooms at Gloucester Place, 
and then opened the envelope carefully with her pen- 
knife. 

She took out the contents, and arranged her three treas- 
ures on the table. Yes, there were three. They had all 
written. There was Sir Douglas’s “ My dear girl ” ; Lady 
Munro’s “ My darling Mona ” ; and Evelyn’s “ My very own 
dearest friend.” 

They were not clever letters at all, but they were affec- 
tionate and characteristic; and Mona laughed and cried 
over them, as she sat curled up in the corner of the stiff un- 
yielding sofa. Sir Douglas was bluff and fatherly, and to 
the point. Lady Munro underlined every word that she 
would have emphasised in speaking. “ Douglas teas so dull 
and so cross after we parted from you. In fact even now he 
is constantly talking of you — constantly .” Evelyn gave a 
detailed circumstantial account of all they had done since 
Mona had left them, — an account interspersed with many 
protestations of affection. “ Mother and I start for Cannes 
almost immediately,” she wrote. “ Of course Father cannot 
be induced to leave Scotland as long as there is a bird on 
the moors. Write me long letters as often as ever you can. 
You do write such lovely letters.” All three reminded 
Mona repeatedly of her promise to spend the whole of next 
summer with them somewhere. 


142 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ How good they are ! ” Mona kept repeating. “ How 
good they are ! ” 

When Mona was young, like every well-conducted 
schoolgirl, she had formed passionate attachments, and had 
nearly broken her heart when “ eternal friendships ” failed. 
“ I will expect no friendship, no constancy in life,” she had 
said. “I will remember that here I have no continuing 
city — even in the hearts of the people I love. I will hold 
life and love with a loose grasp.” 

And even now, when increasing years were making her 
more healthily human, true friendship and constancy had 
invariably called out a feeling of glad surprise. At every 
turn the world was proving kinder to her than she had 
dared to hope. 

She was still deep in the letters when her cousin came 
home. 

“ Well,” said Rachel. “I’ve just heard a queer thing. 
You know the work I had last week, teaching Mrs. Robert- 
son the stitch for that tidy? Well, she had some friends in 
to tea last night, and she never asked me ! Did you ever 
hear the like of that ? She thinks she’s just going to get 
her use out of me ! ” 

“I expect, dear,” said Mona, “that the stitch proved 
more than she could manage after all, and she was afraid to 
confess it.” 

“ Well, I never did know any one so slow at the crotchet,” 
said Rachel, resentfully, releasing the wonderful red cap 
from its basket. “ She may look for some other body to 
help her the next time. But we’d better take our porridge 
and be off to our beds, if we’re going to St. Rules to-mor- 
row.” 

Mona read her letters once more in her own room, and 
then another thought asserted itself unexpectedly. 

“ I wish with all my heart that I could have shown him 
the sketch-book, and made a clean breast of it,” she said 
to her trusty friend in the glass; “and yet” — her attitude 
changed — “ why should he stand on a different footing from 
everybody else ? ” 

The face in the glass looked back defiantly, and did not 
seem prepared with any answer. 


ST. RULES. 


143 


CHAPTER XX. 

ST. RULES. 

Whet* Mona appeared at the breakfast- table next morn- 
ing, Rachel regarded her with critical dissatisfaction. 

“ I wonder yon don’t get tired of that dress,” she said, 
as she poured out the tea — from the brown teapot. “ It’s 
very nice of course, and as good as new, but changes are 
lightsome, and one would think you would sometimes prefer 
to wear something more youthful-like. Pity your print’s at 
the wash.” 

Mona looked out of the window. 

“ I have another,” she said, “ if you think it won’t rain.” 

“ Oh no. And besides, you can take your waterproof.” 

“ It’s not so much that I mind getting anything spoiled, 
as that I hate to be dressed unsuitably ; but I do think it is 
going to be a beautiful day.” 

She left the room as soon as she had finished breakfast, 
and returned in about ten minutes. 

“ A gavotte in cream and gold,” she said, making a low 
curtsey. “ I hope it meets with your approval.” 

“ My word ! ” said Rachel, “ you do look the lady, and it’s 
cheap stuff too ! Why, I declare you would pass for a 
beauty if you took the trouble to dress well. It’s wonderful 
how you become that hat.” 

“ Took a little trouble to dress well ! ” ejaculated Mona, 
mentally. “ A nice thing to say to a woman who makes 
dress her first aim in life ! ” 

They walked in to Kirkstoun, and there took the coach. 
Mona would fain have gone outside, but Rachel wanted to 
point out the lions they passed on the way, and she consid- 
ered that they got their “penny’s worth” better inside. 
Fortunately there were not many passengers, and Mona 
succeeded in placing herself on the windward side of two 
fishwives. 

About noon they reached St. Rules, and wandered rather 
aimlessly about the streets, paying incidental visits to the 
various places of note. Rachel had about as much idea of 
acting the part of cicerone as she had of trimming hats, or 
making scones, or keeping shop, or indeed of doing anything 


MONA MACLEAN. 


144 

useful ; and she was in a constant state of nervous perturba- 
tion, lest -some officious guide should force his services upon 
them, and then expect a gratuity. 

The season was over and the visitors were few, so Mona’s 
pretty gown attracted not a little attention. Simple as it 
was, she regretted fifty times that she had put it on ; Ra- 
chel’s dress would have escaped notice but for the contrast 
between them. 

It was positively a welcome interlude when they arrived at 
the pastry-cook’s ; but at the door Rachel stood aside obsequi- 
ously, to give place to a lady who came up behind them “ in 
her carriage,” and then gave her own order in a shamefaced 
undertone, as if she had no right to make use of the shop at 
the same moment as so distinguished a personage. Poor 
Mona ! She thought once more of Lady Munro, and she 
sighed. 

“ The only other thing that we really need to see,” said 
Rachel, wiping her hands on a crumpled paper bag that 
happened to lie beside her, “ is the Castle. I’ll be glad to 
rest my legs a bit, while you run round and look about you.” 

She had at least shown her good sense in reserving the Cas- 
tle as a bonne bouche. Mona’s irritation vanished as she stood 
in the enclosure and saw the velvety green turf underfoot, 
the broad blue sky overhead, the bold outline of ruined ma- 
sonry round about, and the “ white horses ” riding in on the 
rugged coast below. She was wandering hither and thither, 
examining every nook and cranny, when suddenly, in an 
out-of-the-way corner she came upon a young man and a girl 
in earnest conversation. The girl started and turned her 
back, and Mona left them in peace. 

“ Surely I have seen that face before,” she thought, 
“ and not very long ago. I know ! It is that silly little 
minx, Matilda Cookson. I hope the young man is up to no 
mischief. 

In another moment the “silly little minx” was swept 
out of her mind; for, standing on a grassy knoll, laughing 
and talking with Rachel, she saw Dr. Dudley. 

An instinctive rush of surprise and pleasure, a feeling 
of uneasiness at the thought of what Rachel might be say- 
ing, a sense of satisfaction in her own fresh girlish gown, — 
all these passed through Mona’s mind, as she crossed the 
open space in the sunshine. 


ST. RULES. 


145 


44 Well,” said Dudley, as she joined them, “ this can give 
a point or two even to Castle Maclean.” 

“ Do you think so?” she responded, gravely. 44 That is 
high praise.” 

He laughed. “ Have you seen that gruesome dungeon ? ” 

44 Not properly. I am on my way to it now.” 

He turned to walk with her, and they leant over the rail- 
ing looking down on the blackness below. A few feet from 
the top of the dungeon a magnificent hart’s-tongue fern 
sprang from a crevice, and curled its delicate, pale green 
fronds over the dank, dark stone. 

“ How lovely ! ” said Mona. 

“ Yes,” he said. “ And it is not only the force of con- 
trast. Its gloomy surroundings really do make it more 
beautiful.” 

“ Yes,” said Mona, relentlessly ; 44 but it is not what 
Nature meant it to be.” 

“ True,” he replied. “ Yet who would wish it trans- 
planted ! ” 

Presently he turned away, and looked over the rough 
blue sea. 

“ This place depresses me unspeakably,” he said. “ It 
reminds me of a book of 4 martyr stories ’ I had when I was 
a child. I have a mental picture now of a family sitting 
round a blazing fire, and saying in awestruck whispers, ‘ It’s 
no sae cheery as this the nicht i’ the sea tower by St. Rules.’ 
What appalling ideas of history they give us when we are 
children ! ” And he added half absently— 

“ « Sitzt das kleine Menschenkind 
An dera Ocean der Zeit, 

Schopft mit seiner kleinen Hand 
Tropfen aus der Ewigkeit.’ ” 

Mona looked up with sparkling eyes and made answer— 

“ ‘ Schopfte nicht das kleine Menschenkind 
Tropfen aus dem Ocean der Zeit, 

Was geschieht verwehte wie der Wind 
In den Abgrund oder Ewigkeit.’ ” 

“ Go on, go on,” she said, regardless of his unconcealed 
surprise , 44 the best thought comes last.” So he took up the 
strain again : 

10 


14:6 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ ‘ Tropfen aus dem Ocean der Zeit 

Schopft das Menschenkind mifc kleiner Hand. 

Spiegelt doch, dem Lichte zugewandt, 

Sich darin die ganze Ewigkeit.’ ” 

“ I don’t know,” he said, moodily. “ There was precious 
little of Eternity in the drops that were doled out to me.” 

“ Not then,” said Mona ; “ but when you were old enough 
to turn them to the light, you could see the eternal even 
there.” 

His face relaxed into a smile. This girl was like an out- 
lying part of his own mind. 

They strolled slowly back to Rachel. 

“ Do you enjoy sight-seeing? ” he asked. 

“ The question is too big. Cut it down.” 

“ Nay, I will judge for myself, — if you are not too tired 
to turn back to the town.” 

“ Not a bit.” 

When Rachel heard of the proposal, she rose to her feet, 
with considerable help from Mona and from a stout um- 
brella. She would fain have “ rested her legs ” a little 
longer, and the necessity of acting the part of chaperone 
never so much as crossed her mind ; but the honour of Dr. 
Dudley’s escort through the streets of St. Rules was not to 
be lightly foregone. 

The first half-hour brought considerably more pain than 
pleasure to Mona. She was straining every nerve to draw 
out the best side of Rachel; and this, under the circum- 
stances, was no easy task. 

Rachel’s manner was often simple, natural, and even ad- 
mirable, when she was speaking to her inferiors ; but the 
society of any one whom she chose to consider her superior 
was sure to draw out her innate vulgarity. Mona under- 
stood Dr. Dudley well enough to know that he had no regal 
disregard for what are known as “ appearances,” and she 
suffered more for him than for herself. 

It did not occur to her that Rachel was acting very 
effectively the part of the damp, black wall, which was 
throwing the dainty fern into more brilliant relief. 

“ It is all his own doing,” she thought, indignantly. 
“Why has he brought this upon himself and me? And it 
will fall upon me to keep Rachel from talking about it for 
the next week.” 


ST. RULES. 


147 


Fortunately, though Rachel trudged about gallantly to 
the last, she soon became too tired to talk, and then Mona 
gave herself up to the enjoyment of the hour. Either Dr. 
Dudley knew St. Rules by heart, or he possessed a magnetic 
power of alighting on the things that were worth seeing. 
Curious manuscripts and half-effaced inscriptions ; stained- 
glass windows and fine bits of carving ; forgotten paintings, 
and quaint old vergers and janitors who had become a part 
of the buildings in which they had grown old ; — all served 
in turn as the text for his brilliant talk. He might well 
say that talking was his Verderhen. 

Finally they wandered again through the ruins of the 
cathedral. 

“ 4 Pull down the nest and the rooks will fly away ! ’ ” 
quoted Dudley, rather bitterly. “ Here at least we have the 
other side of the 4 martyr stories.’ ” 

44 I think sight-seeing is simply delightful,” said Mona, 
as he stowed them into the coach ; “ but one wants special 
eyes to do it with.” 

44 Everything becomes more interesting when seen 
4 through a temperament,’ ” he said. 44 1 am glad if mine 
has served as a makeshift.” 

44 She won’t spot that reference,” he thought to himself. 

That evening all three made reflections about the day’s 
outing. 

44 It came off wonderfully well, considering that I went 
in search of it,” thought Dudley. 44 1 fully expected it to 
be a dead failure. She must have met the draper acci- 
dentally.” 

44 He is very gentlemanly and amazingly clever,” thought 
Rachel ; 44 and he seemed as pleased at the meeting as any 
of us. But how my legs do ache ! ” 

44 I’ll no more of this masquerading ! ” thought Mona. 
44 1 will take the first opportunity of asking Rachel’s per- 
mission to tell him the whole truth. Perhaps he will take 
it all as a matter of course.” 

But when she went up to dinner the next day, Rachel 
calmly informed her that Dr. Dudley had gone. 44 He has 
just walked up to the station with a bag in his hand,” she 
said, 44 and Bill had a lot of luggage on a hurley. I think 
it’s a queei sort of thing that he didn’t look in and say good- 
bye, after we were all so friendly-like yesterday.” 


148 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona smiled a little drearily. 

“ He might well say ‘ so long,’ ” she said to herself, an 
hour later, as she sat on the battlements of Castle Maclean. 
“ Looked at in the abstract, as a period of time, three months 
is a pretty fair sample of the commodity ! ” 

Thus does the feminine mind, while striving to grasp 
the abstract, fall back inevitably into the concrete ! 

“ As a man,” said Mona, “ he is not a patch upon the 
Sahib ; but I never had such a playfellow in my life ! ” 


CHAPTER XNI. 

THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 

“What do you think, my dear?” said Rachel a few 
days later with beaming face. “ I have just had a letter 
from my niece. Would you like to hear it?” 

“Very much,” said Mona. “‘First Impressions of a 
Hew Continent.’ Is it the first you have had ? ” 

“ No, it’s the second. She’s no great hand at the letter- 
writing. But there’s more ‘ impressions ’ in this. She says 
the difficulty of getting servants is beyond everything.” 

Rachel proceeded to read the epistle ; and for once Mona 
found herself in absolute accord with her cousin. Rachel’s 
niece was certainly “ no great hand at the letter- writing.” 

It was evening, and Mona had just come in from a stroll 
in the twilight. She did not often go out after tea, but 
there was no denying the fact that the last few days had not 
been very lively ones, and that physical exercise had become 
more desirable than ever. She had not realised, till he was 
gone, that l)r. Dudley’s occasional companionship made any 
appreciable difference in the world at Borrowness ; but she 
did not now hesitate for a moment to acknowledge the 
truth to herself. 

“ It is almost as if I had lost Doris or Lucy,” she said ; 
“ and of course, in a place like this, sympathetic companion- 
ship is at a premium. One might go into a melancholia 
here over the loss of an intelligent dog or a favourite canary. 


THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 


149 


The fact that so many women have fallen in love throws a 
lurid light on the lives they must have led. Poor souls ! I 
will write to Tilbury to-morrow to send me my little box of 
books. Two hours’ hard reading a-day is a panacea for 
most things.” 

With this wholesome resolution she returned from her 
walk, to find Rachel in a state of beatification over her 
niece’s letter. 

“ I declare I quite forgot,” she said, “ there’s a parcel 
and letter for you too. 1 think you’ll find them on the 
chair by the door.” 

“Nothing of much interest,” said Mona; “at least I 
don’t know the handwriting on either. A begging-letter, I 
expect.” 

She proceeded to open the parcel first, untying the knot 
very deliberately, and speculating vaguely as to the cause of 
the curious damp smell about the wrappings. “Fancy 
Kuching ” in gilt letters on one end of the box was ap- 
parently a misleading title ; for, when the cover was lifted, 
a mass of damp vegetation came to view. 

Rachel lifted her hands in horror. The idea of bring- 
ing caterpillars and earwigs and the like of that into the 
house ! 

On the top of the box lay a sheet of moist writing-paper 
folded lengthwise. Mona took it up. 

“ Why,” she said, “ how very kind ! It is from Mr. 
Brown. He has been out botanising, and has sent me the 
fruits of an afternoon’s ramble.” 

“ The man must be daft ! ” thought Rachel, “ to pay the 
postage on stuff that anybody else would put on the ash- 
heap. The very box isn’t fit to use after having that 
rubbish inside it.” 

Fortunately, before she could give utterance to her 
thoughts, a brilliant idea flashed into her mind. Regarded 
absolutely, the box might be rubbish; but relatively, it 
might prove to be of enormous value. 

Everybody knew that the draper was “ daft ” ; but no- 
body considered him any the less eligible in consequence, 
either as a provost or as a husband. For the matter of that, 
Mona was “ daft ” too. She cared as much about these bits 
of weed and stick as the draper did. There would be a 
pair of them in that respect. And then — how wonderfully 


150 


MONA MACLEAN. 


things do come about in life ! — Mona would find a field for 
her undeniable gifts in the shopkeeping line. At Mr. 
Brown’s things were done on as large a scale as even she 
could desire ; and if she were called upon some day to fill 
the proud position of “ Provost’s lady,” what other girl in 
the place would look the part so well ? 

Of course the house at Borrowness would be sadly dull 
without her. But she might want to go away some time in 
any case, and at Kilwinnie she would always be within 
reach. Rachel would not admit even to herself that it 
might almost be a relief in some ways to be delivered from 
the quiet thoughtful look of those bright young eyes. 

She beamed, and glowed, and would have winked, if 
there had been any one but Mona to wink to. With her of 
course she must dissemble, till things had got on a little 
farther. In the meantime, Mr. Brown, quiet as he looked, 
seemed quite capable of fighting his own battles ; though if 
any one had sent her such a box in her young days, she 
would have regarded it in the light of a mock valentine. 

She longed to know what Mr. Brown had said; but, 
when Mona handed her the letter, she found it sadly disap- 
pointing. In so far as it was not written in an unknown 
tongue, it seemed to be all about the plants ; and who in 
the world had ever taken the trouble to give such grand 
names to things that grew in every potato-bed that was not 
properly looked after ? But of course tastes did differ, and 
no doubt daft people understood each other. 

Poor Rachel ! This disappointment was nothing to the 
one in store for her. Mona had opened the “ begging- 
letter,” and had turned white to the lips. 

“ I must start by the early train to-morrow,” she said, 
“ and try to catch the Flying Scotchman. A little friend 
of mine in London is very ill.” 

It had proved to be a begging-letter indeed, but not of 
the kind she had supposed. It came from Lucy’s father, 
Mr. Reynolds. 

“ The doctor says that Lucy is in no actual danger,” he 
wrote, “ but she adds that her temperature must not go any 
higher. The child is fretting so for you that I am afraid 
this alone is enough to increase the fever. She was not 
very well when she left us to return to London a week ago ; 
but our country doctor assured me there was no reason to 


THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 


151 


keep her at home. Of course, Lucy had sent for a woman 
doctor before I arrived; and cordially as I approve her 
choice, a moment like this seems to call one’s old prejudices, 
with other morbid growths, to life. Dr. Alice Bateson 
seems very capable and is most attentive, but I need not 
deny that it would be a great relief to me to have you here. 
Lucy’s mother is too much of an invalid to travel so far, 
and you have been like an elder sister to her for years. 

“ I know well that I need not apologise for the trouble 
to which I am putting you. I fully expect my little girl 
to improve from the moment she hears that I have writ- 
ten.” 

Mona read this aloud, adding, “ I will go out and tele- 
graph to him at once.” 

“ Well, I’m sure,” said Rachel, “it’s a deal of trouble to 
take for a mere acquaintance — not even a blood relation.” 

“ Lucy is more than a mere acquaintance,” said Mona, 
with a quiver in her voice. “ She has been, as he says, a 
little sister.” 

“ What does he say is the matter? ” 

“ Rheumatic fever.” 

“ Then,” said Rachel, bitterly, “ I suppose I may send 
your boxes after you ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Mona, forcing herself to speak playfully ; 
“ a bargain is a bargain, and I mean to keep you to yours. 
Six months is in the bond. I will come back as soon as 
Lucy is well on the way to recovery — within a week, I hope. 
You know rheumatic fever is not the lengthy affair that it 
used to be. I assure you, dear, a visit to London is the very 
last thing I want at present. So far as I personally am con- 
cerned, I would infinitely rather stay with you. But I am 
not of so much use here that I should refuse to go to people 
who really need me.” 

If she wanted a crumb of encouragement, she was not 
disappointed, although Rachel was one of the people who do 
not find it easy to grant such crumbs. 

“ Well, I’m sure that’s just what you are,” she said. “ I 
don’t know what I am to do without you, and everybody 
says the shop has been a different place since you came.” 
With a great effort she refrained from referring to stronger 
reasons still against Mona’s departure. 

Mona kissed her on the forehead. 


152 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“Then expect me back this day week or sooner,” she 
said. “ You don’t want me more than I want to come.” 

This was the literal truth. When she had laid her plans, 
she was not grateful to the unfriendly Fates who interfered 
with their execution ; she was honestly interested in her life 
at Borrowness ; and it was a positive trial to return to Lon- 
don, a deserter at least for the time, just when all the scho- 
lastic world, with bustle and stir, was preparing for a new 
campaign. 

She went to the post-office and sent olf her telegram to 
Mr. Reynolds, and another to Doris announcing the fact 
that she was going to London for a few days, and would be 
at the Waverley Station before ten the next morning. This 
done, she returned to the house, wrote a friendly note to 
Mr. Brown, packed her valise, and spent the rest of the 
evening with Rachel and “ Mrs. Poyser.” 

She did not pass a very peaceful night. It was all very 
well to say that Lucy’s temperature “ must not go any 
higher ” ; but what if it did ? If it had continued to rise 
ever since the letter was written, what might be the result 
even now ? Mona had seen several such cases in hospital, 
and she remembered one especially, in which cold baths, ice- 
packs, and all other remedies had not been sufficient to pre- 
vent a lad’s life from being burnt out in a few days. She 
tossed restlessly from side to side, and what sleep she got 
was little better than a succession of nightmares. She was 
thankful to rise even earlier than was necessary, and to busy 
herself with some of Mr. Brown’s specimens. 

But, early as she was, Rachel was up before her, cutting 
bulky, untempting sandwiches ; and when the train carried 
Mona away, an unexpected tear coursed down the flabby 
old cheek. 

On the platform at Edinburgh stood Doris, fresh as a 
lily. 

“ It’s very good of you to come,” said Mona. “ I did not 
half expect to see you.” 

“ My dear,” was the calm announcement, “ I am going all 
the way.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“ Father remarked most opportunely that I seemed to be 
in need of a little change, and I gave him no peace till he 
allowed me to come with you. He admitted that such an 


THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 


153 


opportunity might not occur again. He would have been 
here to see us olf, but he had a big consultation at ten. You 
will show me the school and the hospital and everything, 
won’t you ? ” 

“ That I will,” said Mona. 

That she would at all have preferred to keep away from 
her old haunts and companions, just at present, never 
crossed the mind of large-souled Doris. “ Mona capable of 
such pettiness ! ” she would have said in reply to the sugges- 
tion. “ You little know her ! ” 

“ One has not much space for minutice in a telegram,” 
said Mona, “ or I would have explained that I am going to 
see a friend who is very ill. You have heard me speak of 
Lucy Reynolds ? ” 

“ Oh, I am sorry ! But I shall not be in your way, you 
know. If you can spare a few hours some day, that is all I 
want.” 

“ It is a matter of no moment of course, but do you hap- 
pen to have any notion where you mean to put up ? ” 

“ I shall go to my aunt in Park Street of course, the one 
whose ‘ At Homes ’ you so loftily refused to attend. Father 
telegraphed to her last night, and I got a very cordial reply 
before I started. In point of fact, she is always glad to have 
me without notice. We don’t stand on ceremony on either 
side.” 

“ Well, you are a delightful person ! I know no one who 
can do such sensible, satisfactory things without preliminary 
fuss. Shall we take our seats?” 

“ I took the seats long ago — two nice window seats in a 
third-class carriage. Your friend the 4 pepper-pot ’ has duly 
deposited my wraps in one, and my dressing-bag in the other, 
and is now mounting guard in case of accident. You have 
plenty of time to have a cup of coffee at Spiers & Pond’s.” 

In a few minutes they seated themselves in the carriage, 
dismissed the “ pepper-pot,” and launched into earnest con- 
versation. Not till the train was starting did Mona raise 
her eyes, and then they alighted on a friendly, familiar 
figure. At the extreme end of the platform stood the Sahib. 
All unaware that she was in the train, he was waving his hat 
to some one else, his fine muscular figure reducing all the 
other men on the platform, by force of contrast, to mere 
pigmies. 


154 


MONA MACLEAN. 


When Mona saw him it was too late even to how, and 
she turned away from the window, her face flushed with dis- 
appointment. 

“ Oh, Doris,” she said, “ that was the Sahib.” 

“ And who,” asked Doris, “ may the Sahib be ?” 

“ A Mr. Dickinson. I saw a good deal of him in Nor- 
way this summer. He is a great friend of the Munros, you 
know. Such a good fellow ! The sort of a man whom all 
women instinctively look upon as a brother.” 

“ The type is a rare one,” said Doris coldly, “ but I sup- 
pose it does exist.” 

The conversation had struck the vein of her cynicism 
now, though the men who knew “ the lily maid ” would have 
been much surprised to hear that such a vein existed, and, 
most of all, to hear that it lay just there. 

“ I don’t think any of us can doubt that there is such a 
type,” said Mona. “ Certainly no one doubts it who has the 
privilege of knowing the Sahib.” 

Doris did not answer, and they sat for some time in si- 
lence, the line on Mona’s brow gradually deepening. 

“ Dearest,” said Doris at last, “ I don’t bore you, do I ? 
You would not rather be alone?” 

Mona laughed. “What will you do if I say ‘Yes’?” 
she said. “ Pull the cord and pay the fine ? or jump out of 
the window ? My dear, I could count on the fingers of one 
hand the times when you have bored me, and I am partic- 
ularly glad to have you to-day. I should fret myself to 
death if I were alone, between anxiety about Lucy, and vexa- 
tion at having missed the Sahib.” 

Doris’s face clouded. “ Mona dear, I do wish the Mun- 
ros had stayed in India till you had got on the Register. I 
don’t approve of men whom all women instinctively look 
upon as brothers. Marriage is perfectly fatal to students of 
either sex.” 

“Marriage!” said Mona, aghast. “Marry the Sahib! 
My dear Doris, I would as soon think of marrying you.” 

“ I wish you would,” said Doris calmly ; “ but I would 
not have a word to say to you till you had got on the Regis- 
ter. Oh how lovely ! ” 

The train had emerged on the open coast, and every line 
and curve on creek and cliff stood out sharp and clear in 
the crisp light of the October morning. 


THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 


155 


“ Isn’t it?” The line on Mona’s brow vanished. “You 
know, Doris, I believe I am a bit of the east coast, I love it 
so. Heigho ! I do think Lucy must be better.” 

. “ Judging from what you have told me of her, I should 
think the chances were in favour of her meeting you at the 
station.” 

Mona laughed. “ She is an indiarubber ball — up one 
moment, down the next ; but it has been no laughing matter 
this time. I told you she got through her examination all 
right.” 

“ Thanks to your coaching, no doubt.” 

“ No, no, no ! I begin to think Lucy has a better head 
all round than mine. The fact is, Doris, I have to readjust 
my views of life somehow, and the only satisfactory basis on 
which I can build is the conviction that we have all been 
under a complete misapprehension as to my powers. There 
is something gloriously restful in the belief that one is noth- 
ing great, and is not called upon to do anything particular.” 

Doris smiled with serene liberality. Mona had been in 
her mind constantly during the last month. 

“ Very well,” she said. “ As long as you feel like that, 
go your own way. I am not afraid that the mood will last. 
In a few months you will be neither to hold nor to bind.” 

“ Prophet of evil ! ” 

“ Nay ; prophet of good.” 

“ It is all very well for you, in your lovely leisure, realis- 
ing the ideal of perfect womanhood.” 

“ Don’t be sarcastic, please. You know how gladly I 
would exchange my ‘lovely leisure’ for your freedom to 
work. But we need not talk of it. My mind is perfectly 
at rest about you. This is only a reaction — a passing 
phase.” 

“ A great improvement on the restless, hounding desire 
to inflict one’s powers, talents, and virtues — save the mark ! 
— on poor, patient, long-suffering mankind. Oh, Doris, let 
us take life simply, and work our reformations unconscious- 
ly by the way. We don’t increase our moral energy by 
pumping our resolutions up to a giddy height.” 

“ I am not to remind you, I suppose, of the old gospel 
which some of your friends associate with you, that women 
ought always to have a purpose in life, and not be content 
to drift.” 


156 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona turned a pair of laughing eyes full on her friend. 

“Remind me of it by all means. Go a stage farther 
back, if you like, and remind me of my dolls. I am not 
sensitive on either point. I was saying to some one only the 
other day that it takes a great many incompatible utterances 
to make up a man’s Credo , even at one moment. Perhaps,” 
she added more slowly, “ each of us is, in potentiality, as 
catholic as God Himself on a small scale ; but owing to the 
restrictions and mutual pressure of human life, most of us 
can only develop one side at a time — some of us only one in 
a single ‘ Karma.’ ” 

“ You seem,” said Doris quietly, “ to have found the 
intellectual life at Borrowness at a surprisingly high 
level.” 

Mona raised her eyebrows with a quick, unconscious 
gesture. 

“ There are a few intelligent people,” she said rather 
coldly, “ even there.” 

“ But, Mona, your life has been so free from restriction 
and pressure. You have been able to develop on the lines 
you chose.” 

“ Don’t argue that my responsibility is the greater ! How 
do we know that it is not the less ? Besides, there may be 
very real pressure and restriction, which is invisible even to 
the most sympathetic eye.” 

“ I don’t want to argue at all. I don’t profess to follow 
all your flights ; but I am perfectly satisfied that you will 
come back to the point you started from.” 

Mona rose and took down a plaid from the rack. “ Make 
it a spiral, Doris, if you conscientiously can,” she said grave- 
ly. “I don’t like moving in a circle. ‘Build thee more 
stately mansions, 0 my soul ! ’ ” 

Doris looked admiringly at her friend. She could very 
conscientiously have “ made it a spiral,” but she was not in 
the habit of talking in metaphors as Mona was. 

The conversation dropped, and they sat for a long time 
listening to the rattle and roar of the train. Mona did not 
like it. Somehow it forced her to remember that there was 
no necessary connection between Lucy’s condition and the 
bright October weather. 

“ A penny for your thoughts, Doris,” she cried. 

Doris’s large grey eyes were sparkling. 


THE FLYING SCOTCHMAN. 


157 

“I was wondering,” she said, “whether that delicious 
seal is still at the Zoo. Do you know ? ” 

“I don’t; you might as well ask me whether Carolus 
Rex is still brandishing his own death-warrant at Madame 
Tussaud’s.” 

“ Picture mentioning the two places on the same day ! ” 

“ I do it because they lie side by side in the fairy memory 
, palace of childhood. Neither has any existence for me 
j apart from that.” 

“ And you a student of natural history ! I should have 
thought that most of your spare time would have been 
spent at the Zoological Garden.” 

“ Ars longa! — but you are perfectly right. The Hux- 
ley of the next generation, instead of directing us to scalpel 
and dissecting-board, will tell us to forego the use of those, 
till we have studied the build and movements and habits of 
the animals in life. I quite agree with you that it is far 
better to know and love the creatures as you do, than to in- 
vestigate personally the principal variations of the ground- 
plan of the vascular system, as I do.” 

“ I don’t see why we should not combine the two.” 

“ Truly ; but something else would have to go to the 
wall ; Turner, perhaps, or Browning, or Wagner. 

‘ We have not wings, we cannot soar; 

But we have feet to scale and climb.’ ” 

“ I don’t know. Some of us appear to have discovered 
a pretty fair substitute for wings. But you know I am 
looking forward to your dissecting-room far more even than 
to the Zoological Gardens.” 

“ You don’t really mean to see the dissecting-room ? ” 

“ Of course I do. Why not ? ” 

“ Chiefly, I suppose, because you never can see it. No 
outsider can form any conception of what the dissecting- 
room really is. You would only be horrified at the ghastli- 
ness of it, — shocked that young girls can laugh over such 
work.” 

“ Do they laugh ? ” said Doris in an awestruck tone. 
She had pictured to herself heroic self-abnegation ; but 
laughter ! 

“Of course they do, if there is anything to laugh at. 


158 


MONA MACLEAN. 


We laughed a great deal at an Irish girl who could only re- 
member the nerves of the arm by ligaturing them with dif- 
ferent-coloured threads. When girls are doing crewel-work, 
or painting milking-stools, they are not incessantly thinking 
of the source of their materials. No more are we.” 

“ But it is so different.” 

“ Is it ? I don’t know. If it is, a merciful Providence 
shuts our eyes to the difference. It simply becomes our 
work , sacred or commonplace, according to our character 
and way of looking at things. There are minor disagree- 
ables, of course ; but what pursuit is without them ! And 
if they are greater in practical anatomy than in other things, 
there is increased interest to make up for them.” 

“Oh yes, I am sure of that. I think nothing of dis- 
agreeables in such a cause. And I suppose what you say is 
very natural; but I always fancied that lofty enthusiasm 
would be necessary to carry one through.” 

“ I think lofty enthusiasm is necessary to carry us 
through anything. But lofty enthusiasm is not an append- 
age to wear at one’s finger ends ; it is the heart, the central 
pump of the whole system, about which we never think till 
we grow physically or morally morbid. You know, dear, I 
don’t mean to say that the dissecting-room is pleasant from 
the beginning. Before one really gets into the work it is 
worse than ghastly, it is awful. That is why I say that out- 
siders should never see it. For the first few days I used to 
clench my teeth, and repeat to myself over and over again, 
‘ After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.’ It sounds ironical, 
does not it? But it comforted me. On any theory of life, 
this struggle was over for one poor soul ; and, judging by 
the nett result in this world, it must have been a sore and 
bitter struggle. But you know I could not have gone on 
like that ; it would have killed me. I had to cease think- 
ing about it at all in that way, and look upon it simply as 
my daily work — sometimes commonplace, sometimes en- 
thralling. Sir Douglas would say I grew hardened, but I 
don’t think I did.” 

“ Hardened ! ” said Doris, her own eyes softening in 
sympathy as she watched Mona’s lips quiver at the bare 
recollection of those days. “ How like a man ! ” 

“ I never spoke of this before, except once when my un- 
cle made me ; but if you are determined to go in — ” 


DR. ALICE BATESON. 159 

“ Oh yes, I mean to see all I can. You don’t object 
very much, do you ? ” 

“ Object ? ” Mona’s earnestness had all gone. “ Did you 
ever know me object to anything? I did not even presume 
to advise ; I only stated an opinion in the abstract. But 
here is York, and luncheon. We can continue the conver- 
sation afterwards.” 

But the conversation was over for that day. Just as 
the train was about to start, Doris leaned out of the win- 
dow. 

“ Oh, Mona,” she said, “ here is a poor woman with four 
little children, looking for a carriage that will hold them 
all. Poor soul ! She does look hot and tired. I do wish 
she would look in our direction. Here she comes ! ” 

Doris threw open the door, and lifted the children and 
bundles in, one by one. 

“You did not mind, did you?” she said suddenly to 
Mona, as the train moved on. 

“ Oh no ! ” Mona laughed, and shrugged her shoulders. 
“ One must pay the penalty of travelling with a schone 
Seele ! ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

DR. ALICE BATESON. 

Glaring lights in the murky darkness, hurrying por- 
ters pursuing the train, eager eyes on the platform strained 
in the direction of the windows, announced the arrival of 
the Flying Scotsman at King’s Cross. 

“ Are you sure your husband will be here to meet you ? ” 
said Doris to her protegee. “ I will stay with the children 
till you find him. Mona, dear, I had better say good night. 
I will call to-morrow morning to see you and inquire for 
your friend.” 

“ Is there any one here to meet you ? ” 

“ I saw my aunt’s footman a minute ago. He will find 
me presently.” 

A moment later a beautiful white-haired old clergyman 


160 


MONA MACLEAN. 


came up, removing his glove before shaking hands with 
Mona. 

“ I scarcely know how to thank you,” he said in a low 
voice. “ You are a friend in need.” 

“ And Lucy ? ” 

“ Lucy’s temperature, as I expected, has gone down with 
a run since she heard you were coming. The doctor says 
all will be well now.” 

Mona drew a long breath of relief, and looked up in his 
face with a smile. 

He laid his hand on her shoulder. “ Where is your lug- 
gage?” 

“ This porter has my valise. That is all.” 

They got into a hansom, while the tall footman conduct- 
ed Doris to a neat brougham, and a moment later they rat- 
tled away. 

If Sir Douglas made Mona “ a girl again,” Mr. Reynolds 
made her feel herself a child. With him her superficial 
crust of cynicism vanished like hoar-frost before the sun, 
and gave place to a gentle deference which had completely 
won the old man’s heart. “ The type of woman I admire,” 
he had said with dignity to Lucy, “ is the woman of clear 
intellect ; ” but it is probable that the woman of clear intel- 
lect would have appealed to him less, if she had not looked 
at him with pathetic revering eyes that seemed to say, 
“ They call me clever and strong, but I am only a fatherless 
girl after all.” 

“ Will Lucy be settled for the night when we get home ? ” 
Mona asked, when she had exhausted her other questions. 

“ No ; she gets a hypodermic injection of morphia when 
the pain comes on, and that was to be postponed, if possible, 
till our arrival.” 

In a few minutes the cab drew up at a dimly lighted door 
in Bloomsbury. The house was old-fashioned and substan- 
tial ; but a certain air of squalor is inseparably associated 
with most London lodgings, and it was not altogether ab- 
sent here. 

“ Will you show this lady to her room ? ” said the clergy- 
man courteously to the maid who opened the door. 

“ Not yet, thank you,” said Mona. “ Show me to Miss 
Reynolds’s room, please. I will go there first.” 

The room was brightly lighted with a pretty lamp, for 


DR. ALICE BATESON. 


161 


Lucy could not bear to have anything gloomy about her. 
She was lying in bed, propped up with pillows, her eyes 
curiously large and bright, her cheeks thin, her face worn 
with recent suffering. 

Mona bit her lip hard. She had not realised that a few 
days of fever and pain could work such a change. 

Lucy tried to stretch out her arms, and then let them 
fall with a pitiful little laugh. “ I can’t hug you yet, Mona,” 
she said, “ but oh ! it is good to see you,” and tears of sheer 
physical weakness filled her eyes. 

“ You poor little thing ! What a scolding you shall have 
when you are better ! Y ou are not to be trusted out of my 
sight for a moment.” 

“ I know,” said Lucy, feebly. “ I never should have got 
ill if you had been here ; and now I shall just have one ill- 
ness after another, till you come back and go on with your 
work.” 

She looked so infinitely pathetic and unlike herself that 
Mona could scarcely find words. Instinctively she took 
Lucy’s wrist in one cool hand, and laid the other on the 
child’s flushed cheek. 

“ Oh, I am all right now. Of course my heart bounded 
off when I heard the hansom stop. But here comes my 
doctor. I scarcely need you to send me to Paradise to-night, 
doctor ; my friend Miss Maclean has come.” 

Mona held out her hand. “Your name is almost as 
familiar to me as my own,” she said. “ It is a great pleas- 
ure to meet you.” 

Dr. Alice Bateson took the proffered hand without reply- 
ing, and the two women exchanged a frank critical survey. 
Both seemed to be satisfied with the result. Dr. Bateson 
had come in without gloves, and with a shawl thrown care- 
lessly about her girlish figure. Her hat had seen palmier 
days, but its bent brim shaded a pair of earnest brown eyes 
and a resolute mouth. 

“ She means work,” thought Mona. “ There is no hum- 
bug about her.” 

a The girl has some nous,” thought the doctor. “ She 
would keep her head in an emergency.” 

“ Well, and how are you ? ” she said, turning with brusque 
kindness to Lucy. 

“ Oh, I am all right — not beyond the need of your 
ll 


162 


MONA MACLEAN. 


stiletto yet, though,” and she held out a pretty white 
arm. 

The medical visit did not last more than three minutes. 
Dr. Bateson took no fees from medical students, and she 
had too many patients on her books to waste much time 
over them, unless there seemed to be a chance that she could 
be of definite use, physical or moral. She had spent hours 
with Lucy when things were at their worst, but minutes 
were ample now. 

“ Oh, yes. Miss Reynolds will do famously,” she said to 
Mona, who had left the room with her. “ Fortunately I was 
close at hand, and she sent for me in time. "With a tempera- 
ment like hers, the temperature runs up and down very 
readily, and it went up so quickly that I was rather uneasy, 
but it never reached a really alarming height. Good night, 
Miss Maclean. I hope we shall see you at ‘ The Mew 5 be- 
fore long.” 

“ Thank you ; there is nothing I should like better than 
to work under you at the Women’s Hospital,” and Mona 
ran back to Lucy’s room. 

“ Mow, my baby,” she said caressingly, “ I will arrange 
your pillows, and you shall go to sleep like a good child.” 

“ Sleep,” said Lucy, dreamily. “ I don’t sleep. I go 
through the looking-glass into the queerest, most fantastic 
world you can imagine. C’est magnifique — mais — ce n'esi 
pas — le — sommeil .” She roused herself with a slight effort. 
“ About three I go to sleep, and don’t wake till ten. How 
good it will be to see you beside me in the morning ! ” 

Mr. Reynolds came into the room, kissed the little white 
hand that lay on the counterpane, and then gave Mona his 
arm. 

“ You poor child,” he said, as they left the room togeth- 
er, “you must be worn out and faint. That is your room, 
and the sitting-room is just at the foot of the stair. I will 
leave the door open. Supper is waiting.” 

A very pleasant hour the two spent together. Mona 
was at her best with Mr. Reynolds, — simple, earnest, off her 
guard ; and as for the clergyman, he was almost always at 
his best now. 

“ I felt quite sure you would come,” he said, “ but I am 
ashamed to think of the trouble to which you have been 
put. I hope you have not had a very tiresome journey? ” 


DR. ALICE BATESON. 


163 


“ I have had a most pleasant journey from Edinburgh. 
My friend Doris Colquhoun came with me.” 

“Was that the fair young lady with the children? I 
was going to ask if you knew her. She had a very pleasing 
face.” 

“Yes; the children don’t belong to her, but she has 
been mothering their weary mother. Doris is such a good 
woman. She does not care a straw for the petty personal 
things that most of us are occupied with. Even home com- 
forts are a matter of indifference to her. But for animals, 
and poor women, and the cause of the oppressed generally, 
she has the enthusiasm of a martyr.” 

“ She looks a mere girl.” 

“ She is about my age ; but she is so much less self-cen- 
tred than I am, that she has always seemed to me a good 
deal older. She is my mother-confessor, and far too in- 
dulgent for the post.” 

“ 4 A heart at leisure from itself ’ ? ” 

“Yes, that is Doris all over. I don’t believe she ever 
passed a sleepless night for sorrows of her own. By the 
way, Lucy says the morphia does not make her sleep.” 

44 So she says, but it seems difficult to draw the line be- 
tween sleeping and waking when one is under opium. I 
shall be thankful when Lucy can dispense with the drug, 
though I shall never forget my gratitude when I first saw 
the doctor administer it. It seemed to wipe out the pain 
as a w'et sponge wipes out the marks on a slate.” 

44 1 know. There is nothing like it. We had a case in 
hospital of a man who was stabbed in the body. Modern 
surgery might have saved him, but he came into hospital 
too late, and they kept him more or less under morphia till 
the end. Whenever he began to come out of it, he wailed, 
4 Give me morphia, give me morphia ! ’ and, oh, how unspeak- 
ably thankful one was that there was morphia to give him ! ” 

The old man sighed. 44 It is a difficult subject, the 
4 mystery of pain.’ We believe in its divine mission, and 
yet our theories vanish in the actual presence of it. When 
pain has been brought on by sin and folly, and seems mor- 
ally to have a distinct remedial value, we should surely be 
very slow to relieve it ; and yet how can we, seeing as we 
do only one little span of existence, judge of remedial value, 
except on a very small scale ? ” 


161 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ And therefore,” said Mona deprecatingly, “ we should 
surely err on the safe side, and be merciful, except in a case 
that is absolutely clear even to our finite eyes. At the best, 
the wear and tear of pain lowers our stamina — makes us 
less fit for the battle of life, more open to temptation.” 

He sighed again. 

“ ‘ So runs my dream, but what ami? 

Au infant crying in the night ! ’ 

Ah, well! if we can say at the last day, ‘ I was not wise, but 
I tried to be merciful,’ I think we shall find forgiveness ; 
and, if we are to find peace and acceptance, so surely must 
all those whom we have wittingly or unwittingly wronged.” 

Pleasant as the evening was, Mr. Reynolds insisted on 
making it a very short one. 

“Mo, no. Indeed you shall not sit up with Lucy to- 
night. You want rest as much as she does. If she still 
needs any one to-morrow, we will talk about it, but she is 
progressing by strides. He kissed Mona on the forehead, 
and she went to her own room, to sleep a long dreamless 
sleep, broken only by the entrance of the hot water next 
morning. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A RENCONTRE. 

True to her promise, Doris called before eleven. 

“ Well, this is a surprise,” said Mona. “ I did not in 
the least expect to see you.” 

“ Why ? I said I would come.” 

“Yes, but I thought you would go off to visit that 
woman, and forget all about me. What is old friendship 
when weighed against the misfortune of being ‘ hadden 
doon ’ of a husband and four children ! ” 

“ The man was a selfish brute,” said Doris, ignoring an 
imputation she would have resented if her mind had been 
less full of other things. “ Did you notice ? He let his 


A RENCONTRE. 


165 


wife carry more than half the bundles. I sent John to take 
them from her, and fortunately that put him to shame.” 

“ And how did John like it ? ” 

Doris laughed. “ Oh, I don’t know ; I never thought of 
him. I think J ohn is rather attached to me.” 

“ I have yet to meet the man in any rank of life who 
knows you and is not attached to you. I think that has 
taught me more of the nature of men than any other one 
thing. They little dream of the contempt and" scorn that 
lie behind that daisy face, and yet they seem to know by a 
sort of instinct that their charms are thrown away on you, 
— that the fruit is out of reach; and instead of sensibly 
saying 4 sour grapes,’ they knock themselves to pieces 
against the wall.” 

“ Mona, you do talk nonsense ! I have scarcely had an 
offer of marriage in my life.” 

“ I imagine that few women who really respect them- 
selves have more than one, unless the men of their ac- 
quaintance — like the population of the British Isles — are 
‘ mostly fools.’ ” 

“ Oh, they are all that. But I think what you say is 
very true. The first offer comes like a slap in the face, 
‘ out of the everywhere.’ Who could have foreseen it ? But 
after that one gets to know when there is electricity in the 
air, don’t you think so ? ” 

“ I suppose so. But the experience is not much in my 
line. Sensible men are rather apt to think me a guter 
Kamerad, and one weak-minded young curate asked me to 
share two hundred a year with him — his ‘ revenue ’ he 
called it, by the way. Behold the extent of my dominion 
over the other sex ! I sometimes think,” she added gloomi- 
ly, “ it is commensurate with the extent to which I have 
attained the ideal of womanhood ! ” 

“ Mona ! If the sons of God were to take unto them- 
selves wives of the daughters of men, we should hear a dif- 
ferent tale. As things are, I am glad you are not a man’s 
woman. You are a woman’s woman, which is infinitely 
better. If you could be turned into a man to-morrow, half 
the girls of your acquaintance would marry you. I know 
I would, for one.” 

“ You are my oldest friend, Doris,” said Mona grateful- 
ly. “ The others like me because I am moody and myste- 


1GG 


MONA MACLEAN. 


rious, and occasionally motherly. Women always fall in 
love with the Unknown. 

“ How could they marry men if it were otherwise ? ” 
said Doris, but she did not in the least mean it for wit. 

“ You miserable old cynic ! I am going to introduce 
you to-day — I say advisedly introduce you — to a man who 
will convert even Doris Colquhoun to a love of the sex. 
He met me at the station last night, but I suppose you 
were too much taken up with your protegees to notice 
him.” 

“I caught a glimpse of white hair and an old-world 
bow\ One can’t judge of faces in the glaring light and 
black shadows of a railway station at night.” 

“ That’s true. Everybody looks like an amateur photo- 
graph taken indoors. But you shall see Mr. Reynolds to- 
day. He promised to come in. Present company excepted, 
I don’t know that I love any one in the world as I do him 
— unless it be Sir Douglas Munro.” 

“ Sir Douglas Munro ! Oh Mona ! I heard my father 
say once that Sir Douglas was a good fellow, but that no 
one could look at him and doubt that he had sown his wild 
oats very thoroughly.” 

“ Don't ! ” said Mona, with a little stamp of her foot. 
“ Why need we think of it ? I cannot even tell you how 
kind he has been to me.” 

Doris was about to reply, but Mr. Reynolds came in at 
the moment, and they chatted on general topics for a few 
minutes. “ Dr. Alice Bateson has just come in,” he said in 
answer to Doris’s inquiry after Lucy. 

Doris’s face flushed. “ Oh,” she said eagerly, “ I should 
so like to meet Dr. Alice Bateson.” 

“ Should you ? ” he said with a fatherly smile. “ That 
is easily managed. We will open the door and waylay her 
as she comes down. Ah, doctor ! here is a young lady from 
Scotland who is all anxiety to make your acquaintance. 
May I introduce her ? ” 

Miss Bateson came in. She did not at all like to be 
made a lion of, but Doris’s fair, eager face was irresist- 
ible. 

“ I am very glad,” Doris said shyly, “ to express my per- 
sonal thanks to any woman who is helping on what I con- 
sider one of the noblest causes in the world.” 


A RENCONTRE. 


167 


“ It is a grand work,” said Dr. Bateson, rather shortly. 
“ Miss ” she looked at Mona. 

“ Maclean,” said Mona with a smile. 

44 Miss Maclean will be able to show yon our School and 
Hospital. Perhaps we may meet some day at the Hospital. 
Good morning.” 

“ Well ? ” said Mona when she was gone. 

“ I think she is splendid — so energetic and sensible. 
But, you know, I do wish she wore gloves ; and she would 
look so nice in a bonnet.” 

“ Come, don’t be narrow-minded.” 

“ I am not narrow-minded. Personally I like her all 
the better for her unconventionality. It is the Cause I am 
thinking of.” 

“ Oh, the Cause ! It seems to me, dear, that the proph- 
ets of great causes always have a thorn in the flesh that they 
themselves are conscious of, and half-a-dozen other thorns 
that other people are conscious of ; but the cause survives 
notwithstanding.” 

“ I have no doubt that it will survive ; but it seems to 
me that a little care on the part of the prophets would make 
it grow so much faster. Well, dear, I must go. I will come 
again on Friday. You will come to my aunt’s 4 At Home,’ 
won’t you ? ” 

44 If Lucy is better, and your aunt gives me another 
chance, I shall be only too glad. I shall have to unearth a 
gown from my boxes at Tilbury’s. Heigho, Doris! I 
might as well have gone all along, for all the good my ab- 
stinence did me. A deal of wasted pluck and moral cour- 
age goes to failing in one’s Intermediate M. B. ! ” 

44 You have been gone a quarter of an hour,” said Lucy, 
fretfully, when Mona re-entered the sick-room, 44 and Miss 
Colquhoun had you all day yesterday.” 

44 You are getting better, little woman,” said Mona, kiss- 
ing her. 

44 We have so much to talk about — ” 

44 So we have, dear, but not to-day, nor yet to-morrow. 
I won’t have my coming throw you back. You are to eat 
all the milk and eggs and nursery pudding that you possi- 
bly can, and I will read you the last new thing in three- 
volume novels.” 

Lucy resigned herself to this regime the more readily 


168 


MONA MACLEAN. 


as she was too weak to talk ; and she certainly did make 
remarkable progress in the next day or two. She was very 
soon able — rather to her own disappointment — to do with- 
out morphine at night ; and when, a few days later, Mona 
read the last page of the novel, Lucy was lying in a healthy 
natural sleep. 

Mona stole out of the room, listened outside the door for 
a minute or two, and then ran down-stairs. 

44 I hope you are going out ? ” said Mr. Reynolds, look- 
ing up from his Guardian 44 You have been shut up for 
three or four days now.” 

“ Yes ; I told Lucy that if she went to sleep I would go 
for a run. She is to ring as soon as she wakes.” 

4 ' Well, don’t hurry back. I expect the child will sleep 
all the afternoon ; and if she does not, she may content her- 
self with the old man’s company for an hour or two.” 

“ Lucky girl ! ” said Mona, looking at him affectionate- 
ly. “ I should think 4 the old man’s company ’ would more 
than make up to most people for being ill.” 

Lucy’s fellow-students had called regularly to inquire for 
her, and this Friday morning a bright young girl had come 
in on her way to the Medical School, at the same moment 
as Doris Colquhoun. 

“ I only wish I were going with you,” Doris had said to 
her ; and Mona had thankfully availed herself of the oppor- 
tunity so to arrange matters. 

“ I will go and have tea with Doris now,” she thought, 
44 and hear all her impressions before their edge has worn 
off.” 

She set off in high spirits. After all, it was very pleas- 
ant to be in London again, especially in this bright cold 
weather. The shop-windows still had all their old attrac- 
tion, and she stopped every few minutes to look at the new 
winter fads and fashions, wondering what pretty things it 
would be well to take back to Borrowness ; for Rachel had 
reluctantly consented to the investment of a few pounds in 
fresh stock-in-trade. 

44 Whatever I buy will be hideously out of keeping with 
everything else,” thought Mona, 44 but a shop ought to be a 
shop before it professes to be a work of art. At present it 
is what Dr. Dudley would call 4 nayther fish, flesh, fowl, nor 
guid red herrin’.’ ” 


A RENCONTRE. 


169 


She had taken the measure of her clientele at Borrowness 
pretty correctly, and she had a very good idea what things 
would appeal to their fancy, without offending her own 
somewhat fastidious taste ; hut she took as much pride in 
making the most of those pounds as if her own bread and 
cheese had depended on it. “We will do nothing hastily, 
my dear,’ 5 she said to herself. “ We will exhaust all the pos- 
sibilities before we commit ourselves to the extent of one 
shilling. Oh dear, I am glad I have not to go to the School 
after all ; I am in no mood for fencing.” 

Rash thought ! It had scarcely passed through her mind 
before a voice behind her said — 

“ How do you do, Miss Maclean ? ” and looking round she 
saw two of her fellow-students, bag in hand. 

As ill-luck would have it, one of them was the only stu- 
dent of her own year with whom Mona had always found her- 
self absolutely out of sympathy. This one it was who spoke. 

“ It is a surprise to see you ! Miss Reynolds said you 
were not coming back this winter.” 

“ Nor am I. 1 am only in town for a day or two.” 

“ Are you reading at home ? ” 

“ At present I am not reading at all.” 

“ It seems a great pity.” 

“ Do you think so? I think it does us no harm to climb 
up occasionally on the ridge that separates our little furrow 
from all the others, and see what is going on in the rest of 
the field.” 

“ But you ahvays did that, did you not ? I thought you 
were a great authority on the uses of frivolling.” 

“ And you thought it a pity that the results of my ex- 
aminations did not do more to bear out my teaching? 
Never mind. It is only one of the many cases in which a 
worthy cause has suffered temporarily in the hands of an 
unworthy exponent.” . - 

The girl coloured. Mona’s hypersensitive perception had 
read her thought very correctly. 

“ We miss you dreadfully,” put in the other student, 
hastily. “ I do wish you would come back.” 

“ I suppose,” continued the first, glancing at the shop- 
window before which they had met, “ you are busy with 
your winter shopping Regent Street has not lost its old 
attractions, though the Medical School has.” 


170 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“What would they say,” thought Mona, “ if I calmly told 
them the whole truth? — that I am, with the utmost care 
and economy, buying goods for a very small shop in Bor- 
rowness, behind the counter of which I have the honour of 
standing, and serving a limited, and not very enlightened, 

public.” . 

For a moment the temptation to “ make their hair stand 
on end ” was almost irresistible ; but fortunately old habits 
of reserve are not broken through in a moment, and she 
merely said, “ Oh, no. It will be a serious symptom when 
Regent Street loses its attractions. That would indeed be a 
strong indication for quinine and cod-liver oil, or any other 
treatment you can suggest for melancholia. Good-bye, and 
success to you both ! ” 

She shook hands — rather cavalierly with the first, cor- 
dially with the second. “ You all right ? ” she asked quietly, 
as they parted. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“ She is queer,” said the student who had spoken first, 
when Mona was out of hearing. “ My private opinion is 
that she is going to be married. My brother saw her on 
board one of the Fjord steamers in Norway a month or two 
ago, with a very correct party ; and he said a tall fellow 
‘ with tremendous calves ’ was paying her a lot of attention.” 

“ Did your brother speak to her ? ” 

“No, he was much smitten with her at the last prize- 
giving, and wanted me to introduce him, but I did not get 
a chance. She knows a lot of people. I think she gives 
herself tremendous airs, don’t you ? ” 

“ I used to, but I began to think last term that that 
was a mistake. You know, Miss Burnet, I like her.” 

“ I don’t.” 

“ The fact is,” — the girl coloured and drew a long 
breath, — “ I know you won’t repeat it, but I have much 
need to like her. I was in frightful straits for money last 
term I actually had a summons served upon me I could 
not tell my people at home, and one night, when I was sim- 
ply in despair, I went to Miss Maclean. I did not like her, 
but borrowers can afford even less than beggars to be 
choosers, and she always seemed to have plenty of money. 
She was by no means the first person I had applied to, and 
I had ceased to expect anything but refusals. Well, I shall 


A RENCONTRE. 


171 


never forget how her face lighted up as she said , 1 How good 
of you to come to me ! I know what it is to be short of 
money myself.’ I did not think she gave herself airs then ; 
I would have worked my fingers to the bone, if it had been 
necessary, to pay her back before the end of term.” 

“ I don’t see anything so wonderful in that. She had 
the money, and you had not.” 

“That’s all very well. Wait till you have been refused 
by half-a-dozen people who could quite afford to help you. 
W ait till you have been treated to delightful theories on the 
evils of borrowing, when you are half frantic for the want 
of a few pounds.” 

“ I am sure Miss Maclean wastes money enough. I was 
in the pit at the Lyceum one night, and I saw her and Miss 
Reynolds in the stalls. I am quite sure none of the money 
came out of Miss Reynolds’s pocket.” 

“ Miss Reynolds is a highly favoured person. I quite 
admit that there is nothing wonderful about her. But I 
like Miss Maclean, and if she gives up Medicine she will be 
a terrible loss.” 

“ She has been twice ploughed.” 

“ The more shame to the examiners ! ” 

“ Doris,” said Mona a few minutes later, as she entered 
the aesthetic drawing-room where her friend was sitting 
alone at tea, “ stay me with Mazawattee and comfort me 
with crumpets, for I have just met my bete noire” 

Doris looked up with a bright smile of welcome. 
“ Come,” she said, “ ‘ don’t be narrow-minded ’ ! ” 

Mona took up a down cushion and threw it at her 
friend. 

“Pick that up, please,” said Doris quietly. “If my 
aunt comes in and sees her new Liberty cushion on the 
floor, it will be the end of you, so far as her good graces are 
concerned.” 

Mona picked it up, half absently, and replaced it on the 
sofa. 

“ Well, go on. Tell me all about your bete noire. Who 
is he?” 

“He, of course! How is one to break it. to you, dear 
Doris, that every member of our charming sex is not at once 
a Hebe and a Minerva ? ” 


172 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I will try to bear up — remembering that 4 God Al- 
mighty made them to match the men.’ Proceed.” 

But Mona did not proceed at once. She drank her tea 
and looked fierce. 

“ I am narrow-minded,” she said at last. “ I wish that 
any power, human or divine, would prevent all women from 
studying medicine till they are twenty-three, and any woman 
from studying, unless she has some one qualification, physi- 
cal, mental, moral, or social, for the work. These remarks 
do not come very aptly from one who has been twice 
ploughed, but we are among friends.” 

“Well, dear,” said Doris thoughtfully, “there were a 
few students at the School to-day whom one could have 
wished to see — elsewhere ; but on the whole, they struck me 
as a party of happy, healthy, sensible, hard-working girls.” 

“ Did they?” said Mona eagerly, “ I am very glad.” 

“ Yes, assuredly they did, and a few of them seemed to 
be really remarkable women.” 

“Oh, yes? the exceptions are all right; but tell me 
about your visit. I wish you could have gone in summer, 
when they are sitting about in the garden with books and 
bones, and materia medica specimens.” 

“ Two of them were playing tennis when I went in — 
playing uncommonly well, too. We watched them for a 
while, and then we went to the dissecting-room.” 

“Well?” 

“ I am very glad you told me what you did about it — 
— very. I think if I had gone quite unprepared I might 
have found it very ghastly and very awful. It is painful, 
of course, but it is intensely interesting. The demonstrator 
is such a nice girl. She took me round and showed me the 
best dissections ; I had no idea the things looked like that. 
Do you know ” — Doris waxed triumphant — “ I know what 
fascia is, and I know a tendon from a nerve, and both from 
a vein.” 

“ You have done well. Some of us who have worked for 
years cannot say as much — in a difficult case.” 

“ Don’t mock me ; you know what I mean. Oh, Mona, 
how you can be in London and not go back to your work is 
more than I can imagine.” 

“ No ? That is interesting, but not strictly to the point. 
What did you do when you left the dissecting-room ? ” 


A RENCONTRE. 


173 


“ Attended a physiology lecture, delivered by a young 
man who kept his eyes on the ceiling, and never moved "a 
muscle of his face, unless it was absolutely necessary.” 

“ I know,” said Mona laughing, “ but he knew exactly 
what was going on in the room all the time, and was doubt- 
less wondering who the new and intelligent student was. He 
is delightful.” 

“He seemed nice,” said Doris judicially, “and he cer- 
tainly was very clever ; but it would be much better to have 
women lecturers.” 

“ That’s true. But not unless they did the work every 
whit as well as men. You must not forget, dear, that a good 
laundress helps on the ‘ cause ’ of women better than a bad 
doctor or lecturer.” 

“ Oh, I know that. But there must be plenty of women 
capable of lecturing on physiology.” 

Mona shrugged her shoulders. 

“ More things go to making a good physiology lecturer 
than you imagine, — a great many more,” she added impres- 
sively. 

Doris’s face flushed. 


“ Not vivisection ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes, vivisection. It may be that our modern science 
has gone off on an entirely wrong tack ; it may be, as a young 
doctor said to me at Borrowness the other day, that we can- 
not logically stop short now of vivisecting human beings ; 
but, as things are at present, I do not see how any man can 
conscientiously take an important lectureship on physiology, 
unless he is a vivisector. I don’t mean to say that he must 
be at it all the time. Far from it. He may make chemical 
physiology or histology his speciality. But you see physi- 
ology is such a floating, growing, mobile science. It exists 
in no text-book. Photograph it one day, and the picture is 
unrecognisable the next. What the physiologist has to do 
is to plunge his mind like a thermometer into the world of 
physiological investigation, and register one thing one mo- 
ment, and another thing the next. He need never carry on 
experiments on living animals before his students, but he 
must live in the midst of the growing science — or be a hum- 
bug. I thought once that I should like nothing better than 
to be a lecturer on physiology, but I see now that it is im- 
possible, — although, you know, dear, vivisection, aa it exists 


174 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


in the popular mind, is a figment of the imaginations of the 
anti-vi visectionists.” 

Doris did not reply. She could not bear to think that 
Mona did not judge wisely and truly ; she tried to agree 
with her in most things ; but this was a hard saying. 

“ What does the young doctor at Borrowness say to a 
woman doctor?” she asked suddenly. 

Mona winced. “ He does not know that I am a medical 
student. Why should he ? ” 

“ Oh, Mona, you don’t mean to say you have not told 
him ! What an opportunity lost ! ” 

. “ It is not my custom to go about ticketed, dear ; but, if 
you wish, you shall tie a label round my neck.” 

“ However, you will see him again. There is no hurry.” 

“ It is to be hoped not,” said Mona, a little bitterly ; “ and 
now, dear, I must go.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A CLINICAL REPORT. 

Lucy was up — actually standing by the fire in her own 
room — and Lucy was as saucy as ever. 

“ I believe you have grown,” said Mona, regarding her 
critically. 

“ I should think I had ! I must be two inches taller at 
least. What do you think, Mona? I have had two offers 
of marriage this summer.” 

“ That is not surprising. I never had much opinion of 
the intelligence of the other sex. I hope you refused them.” 

“ I did ; but I will accept the next man who asks me, 
even if he is a chimney-sweep, just to spite you.” 

“ Poor chimney-sweep ! But look here, Pussy, you 
should not stand so long. Sit down in the arm-chair, and 
let me wrap you up in the eiderdown. And put your feet 
on the stool — so ! Comfy ? ” 

“ Very comfy, thanks.” 

“ When you are strong enough, I want you to give me a 
full, particular, and scientific account of your illness. How 


A CLINICAL REPORT. 175 

came you by acute rheumatism? You are not a beef and 
beer man.” 

“ Weil, when I went home I was in the most tearing spirits 
for the first week, and then I gradually began to feel fit for 
nothing. No appetite, short breath, and all the rest of it. 
I knew all I wanted was a tonic, and I determined to pre- 
scribe one for myself, on the strength of an intimate ac- 
quaintance with Mitchell Bruce. As a preparatory step, 
in the watches of the night, I tried to run over the ingre- 
dients and doses of the preparations of iron ; but for the 
life of me I could not remember them. Think of it ! A 
month after the examination ! I could not even remember 
that piece de resistance — you know ! — the ‘ cinchona bark, 
calumba root, cloves ’ thing.” 

“ Compound tincture of cardamoms and tincture of 
orange-peel,” completed Mona mechanically. 

“ Of course. That’s it. ‘ Macerated in peppermint- 
water,’ wasn’t it ? or something of that sort. However, it 
does not matter now that I have passed.” 

“ Not in the least ! ” 

“ Well, while I meditated, mother sent for the doctor, a 
mere boy — ugh ! If I had been seriously ill, I should have 
said, ‘ Welcome death ! ’ and declined to see him ; but it was 
only a question of a tonic, so I resigned myself. He pre- 
scribed hypophosphites, and said I was to have a slice off 
the roast, or a chop or something, and a glass of porter 
twice a-day.” 

“Ah ! ” said Mona. 

“ It was no use telling mother that the infant knew less 
than I did. He was ‘the doctor,’ and that was enough. 
His word was law. I will say this for him, that I did get 
stronger ; but just before I came back to town, I began to 
feel ill in quite a different way ; indescribably queer, and 
fidgety and wretched. Mother made me stick to the beef 
and porter, as if my soul’s weal had depended on it, and we 
all hoped the change to London might do me good. Just 
at first, I did feel a little better, and one afternoon Marion 
Proctor asked me to go down to the river with her, and I 
went. My white dress was newly washed, and I had just 
done up my hat for the sixth time this summer. You may 
say what you like, Mona, but I did look awfully nice.” 

“ I don’t doubt it.” 


176 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I did not take my waterproof, because it completely 
spoiled the genoral effect, and I was sure it would not rain ; 
but, as I told you, a tremendous thunderstorm came on, and 
we were drenched.” 

“ Oh, Lucy ! ” 

“ When we got back here, there was not a fire in the 
house, and, do what I would, I got thoroughly chilled. I 
was shivering so, and I felt so feverish, that Marion insisted 
on spending the night with me. She slept in the room you 
have, and I was to knock on the wall if I wanted her.” 

Lucy stopped and shivered. 

“ There, dear,” said Mona, “ you will tell me the rest 
another time. You are tiring yourself.” 

“No, I am not; I like to tell you, Mona, I woke at 
two in the morning with these words in my mind, ‘ The 
sufferings of the damned.’ Don’t call me irreverent. You 
don’t know what it is. It took me three-quarters of an hour 
to get out of bed to knock for Marion, and the tears were 
running down my face like rain.” 

“ My poor baby ! ” Mona got up and knelt down be- 
side her ; but Lucy was already laughing at the next recol- 
lection. 

“ Oh, Mona, I did not see the comedy of it then, but I 
shall never forget that sight. The glimmering candle — 
Marion shivering in her night-dress, her sleepy eyes blink- 
ing as she read from a medical book, ‘ Rheumatism is prob- 
ably due to excess of sarcolactic acid in the blood ’ ! as if I 
was not far past caring what it was due to ! Good old 
Marion ! she dressed herself at once, and at six she went for 
I)r. Bateson. Of course with the dawn the pain just came 
within the limits of endurance ; but when the doctor gave 
me morphia, I could have fallen down and worshipped 
her.” 

“ You poor little girl ! How I wish I had been here ! 
Let me go, dear, a minute. It is time for your medicine.” 

“ Nasty bitter-sweet stuff — I wish I could stop that ! ” 

“Why? I am sure it has worked wonders. How I 
wish we knew exactly how it acts ! ” 

Lucy laughed. “ You are as bad as Marion,” she said. 
“ If you were on the rack, you would not trouble yourself to 
understand the mechanism that stopped the wheels, so long 
as they were stopped. I leave it to you, dear, to cultivate 


A CLINICAL REPORT. 177 

the infant bacillus on a nice little nutrient jelly, and then 
polish him off with a dilute solution of salicin.” 

“ What we want now,” said Mona, meditatively, stroking 
the curly red hair, “ is to get back our baby face. How do 
w T e mean to set about it ? ” 

Lucy made a little moue. “ Hr. Bateson said something 
j about the south of France — such a waste of time ! And 
father says when I come back to London I am to live at 
the College Hall again.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it. I always thought your leav- 
ing was a great mistake.” 

“ Why, you lived in rooms yourself ! ” 

“ Oh, I! I am an old granny full of fads, and quite 
able to take care of myself.” 

“ Your best friend could not deny that you are full of 
fads ; and that reminds me, Mona, it is your innings now. 
I am ‘ dagging ’ to hear all about Borrowness, and the shop 
and your cousin. Your last letter fell very flat on expect- 
ant spirits.” 

Mona went leisurely back to her chair. “ You see, dear,” 
she said, “ I am in rather a difficult position. It would be 
very amusing to give you a piquant account of my doings ; 
but I went to Borrowness of my own free will, and even an 
unvarnished story of my life there would be disloyal to my 
cousin. Borrowness is not a pretty place. The country is 
flat, but the coast is simply glorious. The rocks — ” 

“ Thanks — I don’t mind taking the rocks for granted. 
I want to hear about your cousin and the shop.” 

“ I will give you a rough outline of my cousin, and leave 
the details to your vivid imagination. She is very kind, 
very pious, very narrow, and very dull.” 

“ Good Lord deliver us ! ” murmured Lucy, gravely ; 
“ — and the shop ? ” 

“ The shop is awful. You can imagine nothing worse 
than the truth.” 

“ A nice sphere for Mona Maclean ! ” 

“ Oh, my dear, there is sphere enough in all conscience 
— only too much sphere ! I never saw so clearly in my life 
before that nothing depends on what a man does, but that 
everything depends on how he does it. Even that two- 
penny-halfpenny shop might be made a centre of culture 
and taste and refinement for the whole neighbourhood.” 

12 


178 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Yon would have to get rid of your cousin first.” 

“ I don’t know. One would rather have quite a free 
hand. But she is wonderfully liberal about things that 
must seem sheer nonsense to her.” 

“ She well may be ! ” 

“ That is absurd. Why should she pa}' in appreciation 
for qualities that she does not in the least want, and would 
rather be without ? You must not judge of my suitability 
to her by my suitability to — you, for instance.” 

“ Then she does not even appreciate you ? ” 

Mona meditated before replying. “ She likes me,” she 
said, “ but she thinks me absurdly ‘ superior ’ one minute, 
and gratuitously frivolous the next. She has not got hold 
of the main thread of my character, so of course she thinks 
me a bundle of inconsistencies.” 

“ Why do you stay ? ” 

Mona sighed. “ We won’t go into that, dear. I have 
committed myself. Besides, my cousin likes me ; she was 
very unwilling to part with me, even for a week.” 

“ Selfish brute ! ” said Lucy, inconsistently. “ Is there 
any society ?” 

“ No ; but if there were, it would consider itself a cut 
above me.” 

“ Any men ? ” 

There was a momentary pause. “ My dear, do I ever 
know anything about the men in a place ? ” 

“ I was hoping you had started a few of your Platonic 
friendships. They would at least save you from moping to 
death.” 

“ Moping to death ! ” said Mona, springing to her feet. 
“ My dear child, I never was farther from that in my life. 
I botanise, and once in a way I meet some of the greatest 
living scientists. I do the best sketches I ever did in my 
life, and I have developed a greater talent for millinery than 
you can ever conceive ! ” 


A VOICE IN THE FOG. 


179 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A VOICE IN THE FOG. 

A dense fog hung over the city. 

Doris and Mona had spent half the day among the shops 
and stores, and Mona was in a glow of satisfaction. She 
was convinced that no human being had ever made a ten- 
pound note go so far before, and it was with difficulty that 
she could be induced to talk of anything else. 

Doris was much amused. She believed in letting people 
“ gang their ain gait,” and a day with Mona was worth hav- 
ing under most conditions ; but how any intelligent human 
being could elect to spend it so, was more than she could 
divine. 

“ It would have come to all the same in the end,” she 
said, laughing, “if you had sent a general order to the 
Stores, and left the details to them ; and it would have 
saved a vast amount of energy.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mona. When the two girls were together, 
Mona felt about petty things what Doris felt about great 
ones, that one must not expect absolute sympathy even from 
one’s dearest friends. 

By common consent, however, they dropped into St. 
James’s Hall for an hour, when their work was over, to re- 
fresh themselves with a little music. The overture to Tann- 
hauser was the last item on the programme, and Mona 
would have walked twenty miles any day to hear that. It 
was dark when they left the building, and the fog had re- 
duced the sphere of each street lamp to a radius of two or 
three yards; but Mona could easily have found her way 
home to “ blessed Bloomsbury ” with her eyes shut. Doris 
was going to the Reynolds’s to supper, to meet Lucy for the 
first time, and her aunt’s brougham was to fetch her at 
night. 

“ Listen, Mona,” she said suddenly, as they made their 
way along Piccadilly, “ there are two men behind us discuss- 
ing your beloved Tannhauser.” 

This was interesting. Mona mentally relinquished her 
knick-knacks, and pricked up her ears. 

At first she could only hear something about “sheer 


180 


MONA MACLEAN. 


noise,” “ hideous crash of chords,” “ gospel of din ” ; but a 
moment later the hand that rested on Doris’s arm twitched 
involuntarily, for the mellow, cultured voice that took up 
the discussion was strangely familiar. 

“ My dear fellow, to my mind that is precisely the point 
of the whole thing. The Pilgrims’ Chorus is beautiful and 
suggestive when one hears it simply and alone, in its own 
special sphere, so to speak ; but when it rises clear, stead} T , 
and unvarying, without apparent exertion, above all the re- 
iterated noise and crash and distraction of the world, the 
flesh, and the devil — why, then, it is an inspiration. It be- 
comes triumphant by sheer force of continuing to be it- 
self.” 

The first voice said something about “ want of melody,” 
and then the deep bass went on, 

“ I am not at all learned in the discussion from a tech- 
nical point of view. To my mind it is simply a question of 
making the opera an organic whole — not a collection of 
works of art, but one work of art. Take Don Juan for in- 
stance — ” 

The men turned down a side street, and the voices died 
away in the distance. 

“ What a beautiful voice ! ” said Doris. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Do you know, Mona, I think that must have been a 
nice man.” 

“ Because of the voice ? ” 

“ Because of the voice, and because of what the voice 
said. Young men don’t talk like that as a rule.” 

“ How do you know he was young ? ” 

“ I am sure that ‘ my dear fellow ’ was not more than 
twentv-five.” 

“ Twenty-seven, I should think,” said Mona reflectively. 

Doris laughed. “ You are very exact. Or is it that you 
have gone back to the inkstands ? ” 

Mona sighed. “ Yes,” she said gravely, “ I have gone 
back to the inkstands.” 

There was silence for a few minutes. 

“ I should like to know who that young man was,” said 
Doris presently. 

“ Why, Doris, you are coming out in a new role. It is 
not like you to be interested in a young man.” 


A VOICE IN THE FOG. 181 

“ The more reason why I should be interested in an ex- 
ceptional one.” 

“ You dear old Doris ! ” said Mona affectionately. “ He 
talks well, certainly ; but what if talking be, like Gretchen’s 
beauty, his Verderben ? ” 

“ I don’t think it likely — not that kind of talking.” 

“ Assuredly that kind — if any.” 

But she thought, “ Not any. He has chosen the right 
corrective. If he possesses the gift of utterance, he will at 
least have something to utter.” 

“ It has been such a delightful week,” said Doris, “ and 
now another nice long railway journey with you to-morrow 
will bring it all to an end. You are a highly privileged 
mortal, Mona, to be able to order your life as you choose.” 

Mona smiled without replying. This was a well-worn 
subject of debate. 

“ I know what you are going to say,” continued Doris. 
“ But it is no use asking me. I don’t know which of those 
little inkstands was the best, and I think you did very 
wisely in ordering an equal number of both.” 

“Yes,” said Mona; “and the hinges were so strong, 
weren’t they ? That is the point to look to in a cheap ink- 
stand.” 

“ What an age you have been ! ” said Lucy, as they en- 
tered the dining-room, where she was seated by the fire, 
arrayed in her comfortable dressing-gown. “ I was just 
going to send the bellman after you. So glad to meet you, 
Miss Colquhoun.” 

“ She is not so pretty as I am,” Lucy thought, “ but 
Mona will never see that.” 

Certainly Lucy’s interest in the afternoon’s shopping 
abundantly atoned for Doris’s lofty indifference. “Of 
course, you had to have the things sent straight to the sta- 
tion,” she said, “ but I do wish I could have gone with you. 
Tell me all about it. Where did you go first ? ” 

Fortunately Mr. Reynolds came in at this moment, so 
Doris was not forced to go over all the ribbons and flowers 
and note-paper and what-nots again. 

“ Keep a thing seven years, and its use will come,” said 
Mona. “ My childish passion for shop-windows and pretty 
things has stood me in good stead, you see. You have no 


182 


MONA MACLEAN. 


idea how crisp and fresh all the things looked. The shop 
will simply be another place. I need not blush now when- 
ever a new customer comes in.” 

« How I wish I could come and see it ! ” said Lucy. “ I 
am sure I could ‘dress a window’ beautifully. Do you 
think Borrowness would do me as much good as the Rivi- 
era? It would come a great deal cheaper, would not it?” 

“ Much,” said Mona, smiling ; “ but the cutting east 
wind has a knack of finding out one’s weak places, and you 
must not forget that you have a traitor in the garrison 
now.” 

“ It is so awfully unfortunate ! My fees are paid, and of 
course there have been a lot of new’ books this term. Fa- 
ther simply cannot afford to send me away.” 

“ Don’t fret. I think you will find that it can be done 
very cheaply.” 

“Cheapness is a relative thing. You must remember 
that our whole income does not come to much more than 
yours.” 

“ Well, at least your board here would be saved.” 

In point of fact, Mona had already written to Lady 
Munro about her friend’s illness and she hoped the answer 
would be an invitation to Lucy to spend a month or two at 
Cannes. Mona knew that the Munros were not at all the 
kind of people who are on the outlook for opportunities to 
benefit their fellow-men, but for that very reason they might 
be the more likely to do a graceful action that actually 
came in their way. The arrangement was extremely awk- 
ward, so far as she herself was concerned, for she did not 
mean the Munros to know that she was spending the winter 
at Borrowness. However, that was a minor and selfish con- 
sideration, and no doubt it could be arranged somehow. 

In the midst of the conversation supper was announced. 
It was a homely meal, but the simplest proceedings always 
acquired a charm and dignity when Mr. Reynolds took part 
in them. As soon as it was over he took Mona aside. 

“ Dr. Bateson tells me it is very desirable that Lucy 
should get into a warmer climate for a month or two,” he 
said, “ before a rheumatic habit has any chance to assert itself. 
I am anxious to send her to the south of France, and I want 
you to tell me how it can be cheaply and satisfactorily done. 
I need not tell you, after what you saw of our life when you 


A VOICE IN THE FOG. 


183 


were with us, that Lucy’s education is a heavy strain upon 
my purse. In fact, I give it to her because a profession is 
almost the only provision I can make for her future. I 
never allow myself to be absolutely unprepared for an unex- 
pected drain ; but Lucy’s hospital fees have just been paid, 
and altogether this has come at a most unfortunate time.” 

“ I know very little about the matter at present,” said 
Mona, “ but I can easily make inquiries, as I have friends in 
the Riviera now. My impression is that you can do it satis- 
factorily, and at the same time cheaply ; but I will let you 
know before the end of the week.” 

“ If my aunt declines to rise to the occasion,” she 
thought, “ I will manage by hook or by crook to make them 
take the money from me.” 

Meanwhile Doris and Lucy were getting on together 
pretty well. Doris was shy, but she was prejudiced in 
Lucy’s favour by the fact that she was a woman and a medi- 
cal student. Lucy was not at all shy, but she was somewhat 
prejudiced against Doris by the fact that she was Mona’s 
oldest friend. 

“Did not Mona look lovely at Mrs. Percival’s ‘At 
Home ’ ? ” asked Lucy. “ She always looks nice ; but in 
that blue velvet, with her old lace and pearls, I think she is 
like an empress.” 

“ She has a very noble face, and a very lovable face. I 
suppose she is not beautiful, though it is not always easy to 
believe it.” 

“ Was she a great success?” 

“ I don’t think I quite know what you mean by a suc- 
cess. Mona never commands a room. Perhaps she might 
if she laid herself out to do it. Every one who spoke to her 
seemed much interested in her conversation.” 

This was scarcely to the point. What Lucy wanted to 
know was whether Mona had proved “ fetching ” ; but 
Doris’s serene face was not encouraging, and she dared not 
ask. 

“ Mona is a fortunate being,” she said. 

“ Oh, very ! ” 

“ It must be delightful to have plenty of new gowns and 
all sorts of pretty things.” 

Doris looked aghast. Mona sometimes talked in this 
way, but then Mona was — Mona. No one could look at her 


184 


MONA MACLEAN. 


face and suspect her of real frivolity ; but this child ought 
to be careful. 

“ It must be a great deal more delightful to be able to 
study medicine,” she said, with a little more warmth than 
she intended. 

Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “ Oh, yes,” she said, un- 
certain whether she was speaking in jest or in earnest. 
Then she laughed, — 

“ So ist es in der Welt ; 

Der Eine hat den Beutel, 

Der Andere das Geld.” 

“ The fact is, our circles did not overlap much,” she 
confided to Mona afterwards. “ Our circumferences just 
touched somewhere about the middle of your circle.” 

“ You see, Doris is a great soul.” 

“ Ample reason, truly, why her circle should not coin- 
cide with mine. But you know, Mona, she would be a deal 
more satisfactory if she were a little less great, or a little 
small as well.” 

“ She told me you were a dear little thing, and so 
pretty.” 

“ She's not pretty ! ” 

“ Perhaps not, but she is fascinating, just because she 
never tries to fascinate. A man of the world said to me at 
that 4 At Home,’ that Miss Colquhoun was just the woman 
to drive a man over head and ears in love.” 

“ Did he really ? Miss Colquhoun ? How queer ! 
Wliat did you say ? ” 

“ I cordially agreed with him.” 

“ But has she had many offers ? ” 

“ She would not talk of them if she had ; but you may 
take it as broadly true, that every man of her acquaintance 
is either living in hope, or has practically — I say practically 
— been rejected.” 

“ Oh, Mona, that is a large order ! You see, the fact is, 
I am jealous of Miss Colquhoun.” 

“ My dear Pussy ! Doris and I were chums before you 
■were born.” 

“ Raison de plus ! Look here, dear, you say things to 
me that you would not say to her ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 


A CHAT BY THE FIRE. 185 

“ And you don’t say things to her that you would not 
say to me ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

Lucy laughed, discomfited. “I choose not to believe 
it,” she said. 

Mona kissed her affectionately. “ Come, that is right ! 
With that comfortable creed for a pillow, you ought to 
have an excellent night.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A CHAT BY THE FIRE. 

Moxa hesitated at the door of her own room, and then de- 
cided to run down for ten minutes to the sitting-room fire. 
She was too depressed to go to bed, and she wanted some- 
thing to change the current of her thoughts. To her sur- 
prise, she found Mr. Reynolds still in his large arm-chair, 
apparently lost in thought. 

Prompted by a sudden impulse, she seated herself on a 
stool close to him, and laid her hand on his knee. 

“ Mr. Reynolds,” she said, “ life looks very grey some- 
times.” 

He smiled. “ We all have to make up our minds to 
that, dear ; ” and after a pause he added, “ This is a strange 
duty that you have imposed upon yourself.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ For six months, is it not ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How much of the time is over ? ” 

“ Little more than one month.” 

“ And the life is very uncongenial ? ” 

“At the present moment — desperately. Xot always,” 
she added, laughing bravely. “ Sometimes I feel as if the 
sphere were only too great a responsibility ; but now — I 
don’t know how to face it to-morrow.” 

“ Poor child ! I can only guess at all your motives for 
choosing it ; but you know that 


186 


MONA MACLEAN. 


‘ Deeds in hours of insight willed, 

Can be in hours of gloom fulfilled.’ ” 

“ Mr. Reynolds, it was not insight, it was impulse. You 
see, I really had worked intelligently and conscientiously 
for years ; I had never indulged in amusement purely for 
amusement’s sake ; and when I failed a second time in my 
examination, I felt as if the stars in their courses were 
fighting against me. It seemed no use to try again. 
Things had come to a deadlock. From the time when I 
was little more than a child, I had had the ordering of my 
own life, and perhaps you will understand how I longed for 
some one to take the reins for a bit. On every side I saw 
girls making light of, and ignoring, home duties ; and, just 
I suppose because I had never had any, such duties had 
always seemed to me the most sacred and precious bit of 
moral training possible. I considered at that time that my 
cousin was practically my only living relative, and she was very 
anxious that I should go to her. I had promised to spend a 
fortnight with her in the autumn ; but the day after I 
knew that I had failed, I wrote offering to stay six months. 

“ Of course I ought to have waited till I saw her and the 
place; but her niece had just been married, and she really 
wanted a companion. If I did not go, she must look out for 
some one else. I don’t mean to pretend that that was my 
only reason for acting impulsively. The real reason was, that 
I wanted to commit myself to something definite, to burn 
my boats on some coast or other. I seemed to have muddled 
my own life, and here was a human being who really wanted 
me, a human being who had some sort of natural right to 
me.” 

“ Dear child, why did you not come and be my elder 
daughter for a time ? It would have been a grand thing 
for me.” 

Mona laughed through her tears, and, taking his delicate 
white hand in both her own, she raised it to her lips. “ Sir 
Douglas said nearly the same thing, though he does not 
know what I am doing ; but either of you would have spoilt 
me a great deal more than I had ever spoilt myself. You 
were kind enough to ask me to come to you at the time ; but 
I thought then that I had passed my examination, and I did 
not know you as I do now. I was restless, and wanted to 


A CHAT BY THE FIRE. 


187 


shake off the cobwebs on a walking tour ; but when I heard 
that I had failed, all the energy seemed to go out of me.” 

It was some minutes before he spoke. 

“ ^11 me about your life at Borrowness. There is a shot), 
is there not?” r 

“ I don’t quarrel with the shop,” said Mona warmly ; “ the 
shop is the redeeming feature. You don’t know how it 
brings me in contact with all sorts of little joys and sorrows. 
I sometimes think I see the very selves of the women and 
girls, as neither priest nor Sunday-school teacher does. I 
have countless opportunities of sympathising, and helping, 
and planning, and economising, — even of educating the 
tastes of the people, the least little bit, — and of suggesting 
other ways of looking at things.” 

“ And what about your cousin ? ” 

Mona hesitated. “ I told Lucy that to give even a plain, 
unvarnished account of my life at Borrowness would be a 
disloyalty to my cousin, but one can say anything to you. 
Mr. Reynolds, I knew before I went that my cousin was not 
a gentlewoman, that ours had for two generations been the 
successful, hers the unsuccessful, branch of my father’s 
family. I knew she lived a simple and narrow life ; but how 
could I tell that my cousin would be vulgar ? — that if under 
any circumstances it was possible to take a mean and sordid 
view of a person, or an action, or a thing, she would be sure 
to take that mean and sordid view? I have almost made a 
vow never to lose my temper, but it is hard — it is all the 
harder because she is so good ! ” 

“Now you know the whole story. Pitch into me well. 
You are the only person who is in a position to do it, so your 
responsibility is great.” 

He had never taken his eyes from her mobile face while 
she was speaking. “ I have no wish to pitch into you well,” 
he said ; “ you disarm one at every turn. I need not tell you 
that your action in the first instance was hasty and childish 
— perhaps redeemed by just a dash of heroism.” 

Mona lifted her face with quivering lips. 

“ Never mind the heroism,” she said, with a rather pa- 
thetic smile. “ It was hasty and childish.” 

“ But I do mind the heroism very much,” he said, pass- 
ing his hand over her wavy brown hair. “ I believe that some 
of the deeds which we all look upon as instances of sublime 


183 


MONA MACLEAN. 


renunciation have been done in just such a spirit. It is one 
of the cases in which it is very difficult to tell where the 
noble stops and the ignoble begins. But of one thing I am 
quite sure — the hasty and childish spirit speedily died a nat- 
ural death, and the spirit of heroism has survived to bear 
the burden imposed by the two.” 

“ Don’t talk of heroism in connection with me.” Mona 
bit her lip. “ I see there is one thing more that I ought to 
tell you, since I have told you so much. AY hen I went to 
Borrowness there was some one there a great deal more cult- 
ured than myself, whose occasional society just made all the 
difference in my life, though I did not recognise it at the 
time. It is partly because I have not that to look forward 
to when I go back that life seems so unbearable.” 

“ Man or woman ? ” 

“ Man, but he was nice enough to be a woman.” 

The words were spoken with absolute simplicity. Clearly, 
the idea of love and marriage had not crossed her mind. 

“ Did he know your circumstances?” 

“ No ; he took for granted that Borrowness was my home. 
I might have told him ; but my cousin had asked me not to 
mention the fact that I was a medical student.” 

“ And he has gone ? ” 

“Yes, he may be back for a week or so at Christmas, 
but I don’t know even that.” Mona looked up into the old 
man’s face. “ Now,” she said, “ you know the whole truth 
as thoroughly as I know it myself.” 

He repaid her look with interest. 

“ Honest is not the word for her,” he thought. “ She is 
simply crystalline.” 

“ If I had the right,” he said, “ I should ask you to 
promise me one thing.” 

“ Don’t say 4 If I had the right,’ ” said Mena. “ Claim it.” 

“ Promise that you will not again give away your life, or 
any appreciable part of it, on mere impulse, without abun- 
dant consideration.” 

“ I will promise more than that if you like. I will 
promise not to commit myself to anything new without 
lirst consulting you.” 

He could scarcely repress a smile. Evidently she did 
not foresee the contingency that had prompted his words. 
AYhat a simple-hearted child she was, after all ! 


A CHAT BY THE FIRE. 


189 


“ I decline to accept that promise,” he said ; “ I have 
abundant faith in your own judgment, if you only give it a 
hearing. But when your mind is made up, you know where 
to find a sympathetic ear; or if you should be in doubt or 
difficulty, and care to have an old man’s advice, you know 
where to come for it. Make me the promise I asked for at 
first ; that is all I want.” 

Mona looked up again with a smile, and clasped her 
hands on his knee. “ I promise,” she said slowly, “ never 
again to give away my life, or any appreciable part of it, on 
mere impulse, without abundant consideration.” 

He smiled down at the bright face, and then stooped to 
kiss her forehead. “And now,” he said, “let us take the 
present as we find it. I suppose no one but yourself can 
decide whether this duty is the more or the less binding be- 
cause it is self-imposed.” 

Mona’s face expressed much surprise. “ Oh,” she said, 
“ I have not the smallest doubt on that score. I must go 
through with it now that I have put my hand to the 
plough.” 

“ I am glad you think so, though there is something to 
be said on the other side as well. Your mind is made up, 
and that being so, you don’t need me to tell you that you 
are doubly bound to take the life bravely and brightly, be- 
cause you have chosen it yourself. Fortunately, yours is a 
nature that will develop in any surroundings. But I do 
want to say a word or two about your examination, and the 
life you have thrown aside for the tiine. I know you don’t 
talk about it, but I think you will allow me to say what I 
feel. Preaching, you know, is an old man’s privilege.” 

“ Go on,” said Mona, “ talk to me. Nobody helps me 
but you. It does me good even to hear your voice.” 


190 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A NEOPHYTE. 

Once more Mona arrived at Borrowness, and once more 
Rachel was awaiting her at the station. 

There was no illusion now about the life before her, no 
uncertainty, no vague visions of self-renunciation and of a 
vocation. All was flat, plain, shadowless prose. 

“ I must e’en dree my weird,” she said to herself as the 
train drew into the station ; but a bright face smiled at 
Rachel from the carriage window, a light step sprang on to 
the platform, and a cheerful voice said — 

“ Well, you see I am all but true to my word ; and you 
have no idea what a lot of pretty things I have brought 
with me.” 

“ Mona,” said Rachel mysteriously, as they walked down 
the road to the house, “ I have a piece of news for you. 
Who do you think called ? ” 

“ I am afraid I can’t guess.” 

“ Mr. Brown ! ” 

“ Did he ? ” said Mona rather absently. 

“ Yes. At first I was that put out at you being away, 
and I had the awfullest hurry getting on my best dress ; 
but just as I was showing him out, who should pass but 
Mrs. Robertson. My word, didn’t she stare ! The Browns 
would never think of calling on her. I told him you were 
away visiting friends. I didn’t say in London, for fear he 
might find out about your meaning to be a doctor.” 

“ That would be dreadful, would not it?” 

“ Yes, but you needn’t be afraid. He said something 
about its being a nice change for you to come here after 
teaching, and I never let on you weren’t a teacher, though 
it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him what a nice bit 
of a tocher you had of your own.” 

“Pray don’t say that to any one,” said Mona rather 
sharply. “ I have no wish to be buzzed round by a lot of 
raw Lubins in search of Phyllis with a tocher.” 

“Well, my dear, you know you’re getting on. It’s best 
to make hay while the sun shines.” 

“ True,” said Mona cynically ; “ but when a woman has 


191 


A NEOPHYTE. 

even three hundred a-year of her own, she has a good long 
day before her.” 

Early in the evening Bill arrived with Mona’s boxes, 
and the two cousins entered with equal zest upon the work 
of unpacking them. “ My word ! ” and “ Well, I never ! ” 
fell alternately from Rachel’s lips as treasure after treasure 
came to view. Ten pounds was a great sum of money, to 
be sure ; but who would have thought that even ten pounds 
could buy all this? “ You are a born shopkeeper, Mona ! ” 
she said with genuine admiration. 

Mona laughed. “ Shall we advertise in the Gazette that 
‘ Our Miss Maclean has just returned from a visit to London, 
and has brought with her a choice selection of all the 
novelties of the season ’ ? ” she said, but she withdrew the 
suggestion hastily, when she saw that Rachel was disposed to 
take it seriously. 

“ And now,” she went on, “ there is one thing more, not 
for the shop but for you ; ” and from shrouding sheets of 
tissue paper, she unfolded a quiet, handsome fur cloak. 

“ Oh, my goodness ! ” Rachel had never seen anything so 
magnificent in her life, and the tears stood in her eyes as 
she tried it on. 

“ It’s your kindness I’m thinking of, my dear, not of the 
cloak,” she said ; “ but there isn’t the like of it between this 
and St. Rules. It’ll last me all my life.” 

Mona kissed her on the forehead, well pleased. 

“ And I brought a plain muff and tippet for Sally. She 
says she always has a cold in the winter. This is a reward 
to her for spending some of her wages on winter flannels, 
sorely against her will.” 

“ Dear me ! She will be set up. There will be no keep- 
ing her away from Bible Class and Prayer Meeting now ! 
It is nice having you back, Mona. I can’t tell you how 
many folks have been asking for you in the shop ; there’s 
twice as much custom since you came. Miss Moir wouldn’t 
buy a hat till you came back to help her to choose it, and 
Polly Bainqs from the Towers brought in some patterns of 
cloth to ask your advice about a dress.” 

“ Did she ? How sweet of her ! I hope you told her to 
call again. Has the Colonel’s J enny been in ? ” 

“ Oh no, it’s very seldom she gets this length. Kirks- 
toun’s nearer, and there’s better shops.” 


192 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ She told me there’s no one to write her letters for her, 
since Maggie went away, and I promised to go out there 
before long and act the part of scribe. It was quite a weight 
on my mind while I was in London, but I will go as soon as 
I get these things arranged in the shop. Has the Colonel 
gone yet? ” 

“ No ; I understand he goes to his sister’s to-morrow.” 

Most of Jenny’s acquaintances gladly seized the oppor- 
tunity to call on her when her master was away from home. 
The Colonel had the reputation of being the most outra- 
geously eccentric man in the whole country-side, and it 
required courage of no common order to risk an accidental 
encounter with him. He might chance, of course, to be in 
an extremely affable humour, but it was impossible to make 
sure of this beforehand ; and one thing was quite certain, 
that the natural frankness of his intercourse with his fellow- 
men was not likely to be modified by any sense of tact, or 
even of common decency. What he thought he said, and 
he often delighted in saying something worse than his de- 
liberate thought. Not many years before, his family had 
owned the whole of the estate on which he was now content 
to rent a pretty cottage, standing some miles from the sea, 
in a few acres of pine-wood. Here he lived for a great part 
of the year, alone with his quaint old housekeeper Jenny, 
taking no part in the social life of the neighbourhood, but 
calling on whom he chose, regardless of all etiquette in the 
matter. Strange tales were told of him, tales to wdiich 
Jenny listened in sphinx-like silence, never giving wing to 
a bit of gossip by so much as an “Ay ” or “Nay.” She had 
grown thoroughly accustomed to the old man’s ways, and it 
seemed to be nothing to her if his language was as strong as 
his potions. 

“ Have a glass of whisky and water, Colonel ? ” Mrs. 
Hamilton had asked one cold morning, when he dropped 
into her house soon after breakfast. 

“ Thank you, madame,” he had replied, “ I won’t trouble 
you for the water.” 

The clever old lady was a prime favourite with him, the 
more so as she considered it the prescriptive right of a sol- 
dier of good family to be as outrageous as he chose. 

He was a kind-hearted man, too, and fond of children, 
though they rarely lost their fear of him. He was reported 


A NEOPHYTE. 


193 


to be “ unco near,” but if he met a bright-faced child whom 
he knew, in his favourite resort, the post-office, he would 
say— . 

“ Sixpenn’orth of sweets for this young lady, Mr. Dal- 
gleish. You may put in as many more as you like from 
yourself, but sixpenn’orth will be from me.” 

Mona was somewhat curious to see the old man, as she 
fancied that in her childhood she had heard her father speak 
of him ; but her time was fully occupied in the shop for 
some days after her return. Eachel had actually consented 
to have the old place re-papered and painted, and when 
Mona put the finishing touch to her arrangements one 
afternoon, no one would have recognised “ Miss Simpson’s 
shop.” 

Mona clapped her hands in triumph, and feasted her eyes 
on the work of reformation. Then she looked at her watch, 
but it w T as already late, and as the Colonel’s wood lay three 
or four miles off, her visit had to be postponed once more. 
She was too tired to sketch, so she took a book and strolled 
down to Castle Maclean. 

It was a quiet, grey afternoon. The distant hills were 
blotted out, but the rocky coast was as grand as ever, and 
the plash of the waves, as they broke on the beach beneath 
her, was sweeter in her ears than music. 

She was disturbed in her reverie by a step on the rocks, 
and for a moment her heart beat quicker. Then she almost 
laughed at her own stupidity. And well she might, for the 
step only heralded the approach of Matilda Cookson, with 
her smart hat and luxuriant red hair. 

“ Wherever have you been, Miss Maclean ? ” she began 
rather breathlessly, seating herself on a ledge of rock. “ I 
have been looking out for a chance of speaking to you for 
nearly a fortnight.” 

Mona’s face expressed the surprise she felt. 

“ I have been away from home,” she said. “ What did 
you want with me ? ” 

“ Away from home! Then you haven’t told anybody 
yet?” 

Mona began to think that one or other of them must be 
the victim of delusional insanity. 

“ Told anybody — what ? ” 

Matilda frowned. If Miss Maclean had really noticed 
18 


194 


MONA MACLEAN. 


nothing, it was a pity she had gone out of her way to broach 
the subject, but she could not withdraw from it now. 

“ I thought you saw me — that day at St. Rules.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Mona, as the recollection came slowly back 
to her. “ So I did, — but why do you wish me not to tell 
any one ? ” 

Matilda blushed violently at the direct question, and 
proceeded to draw designs on the carpet of Castle Maclean 
with the end of her umbrella. She had intended to dis- 
pose of the matter in a few airy words; and she felt con- 
vinced still that she could have done so in her own house, 
or in Miss Simpson’s shop, if she had chanced to see Miss 
Maclean alone in either place. But Mona looked so serenely 
and provokingly at home out here on the rocks, with the 
half-cut German book in her delicate white hands, that the 
whole affair began to assume a much more serious aspect. 

Mona studied the crimson face attentively. 

It had been her strong instinctive impulse to say, “ My 
dear child, if you had not reminded me of it I should never 
have thought of the matter again,” and so to dismiss the 
subject. But she was restrained from doing so by a vague 
recollection of her conversation with Dr. Dudley about these 
girls. She forgot that she was supposed to be their social 
inferior, and remembered only that she was a woman, re- 
sponsible in a greater or a less degree for every girl with 
whom she came in contact. 

She laid her hand on her visitor’s shoulder. 

“ You may be quite sure,” she said, “ that I don’t want 
to get you into trouble, but I think you had better tell me 
why you wish me not to speak of this.” 

Mona’s touch was mesmeric, — at least Matilda Cookson 
found it so. In all her vapid little life she had never ex- 
perienced anything like the thrill that passed through her 
now. She would have confessed anything at that moment, 
and perhaps have regretted her frankness bitterly an hour 
latei ; for, after all, confession is only occasionally of moral 
value in itself, however priceless it may be in its results. 

The story was not a particularly novel one, even to 
Mona’s inexperienced ears. Two years before, all the girls 
in Miss Barnett’s private school at Kirkstoun had been “ in 
love” with the drawing-master, who came twice a week 
from St. Rules. His languid manner and large dark eyes 


A NEOPHYTE. 


195 


had wrought havoc within the “ narrowing nunnery walls,” 
and when his work at St. Rules had increased so much that 
he no longer required Miss Barnett’s support, he had taken 
his departure amid much wailing and lamentation. 

Matilda had gone soon after to a London boarding- 
school, where she had forgotten all about him ; but a chance 
meeting at a dance, on her return, had renewed the old at- 
traction. This first chance meeting had been followed by 
a number of others ; and when, only a short time before, 
Mrs. Cookson had suddenly decreed that Matilda was to go 
to St. Rules once a week for music lessons, the temptation 
to create a few more “ chance meetings ” had proved irre- 
sistible. 

Mona was rather at a loss to know what to do with the 
confession, now that she had got it. She knew so little of 
this girl. What were her gods? Had she any heroes? — 
any heroines? — any ideals? Was there anything in her to 
which one might appeal ? Mona was too young herself to 
attack the situation with weapons less cumbrous than heavy 
artillery. 

“ How old are you ? ” she asked, suddenly. 

“ Eighteen.” 

“ And don’t you mean to be a fine woman — morally a 
fine woman, I mean ? ” 

“ Morally a fine woman ” — the words, spoken half shyly, 
half wistfully, were almost an unknown tongue to Matilda 
Cookson. Almost, but not quite. They called up vague 
visions of evening services, and of undefined longings for 
better things, — visions, more distinct, of a certain “ revival,” 
when she had become hysterical, had stayed to the “ enquiry 
meeting,” and had professed to be “ converted.” She had 
been very happy then for a few weeks, but the happiness 
had not lasted long. Those things never did last; they 
were all pure excitement, as her father had said at the time. 
What was the use of raking up that old story now ? 

“ I don’t see that there was any great harm in my meet- 
ing him,” she said, doggedly. 

“ I am quite sure you did not mean any great harm ; but 
do you know how men talk about girls who ‘ give themselves 
away,’ as they call it ? ” 

Matilda coloured. “ I am sure he would not say any- 
thing horrid about me. He is awfully in love.” 


196 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Is he ? I don’t know much about love ; but if he loves 
you, you surely want him to respect you. You would not 
like him to be a worse man for loving you, — and he must 
become a worse man, if he has a low opinion of women.” 

“ You mean that I am not to meet him any more ? ” 

“ I mean that he cannot possibly respect you, while he 
knows you meet him without your mother’s knowledge.” 

“ And suppose I won’t promise not to meet him again, 
what will you do? ” 

“ I don’t consider that I have the smallest right to exact 
a promise from you.” 

“Then you won’t speak of this to any one, whatever 
happens ? ” 

Mona smiled. “ I am not quite clear that you have any 
right to exact a promise from me.” 

Matilda could not help joining in the smile. This was 
good fencing. 

“ At any rate, you have not told any one yet ? ” 

“ I have not.” 

“ Not Miss Simpson ? ” 

“ Not any one ; and therefore not Miss Simpson.” 

“ Well, I must say it was very kind of you. 

“ I am afraid I ought not to accept your praise ; it never 
occurred to me to speak of it.” 

“ And yet you recognised me ? ” 

Mona laughed outright — a very friendly laugh. 

“ And yet I recognised you.” 

Matilda drew the sole of her high-heeled shoe over the 
ground in front of her, and began an entirely new design. 

“ What do you mean by ‘ respect,’ Miss Maclean ? It is 
such a chilly word. There is no warmth or colour in it.” 

“ There is no warmth nor colour in the air, yet air is 
even more essential than sunshine.” 

There was silence for some minutes. Matilda obliter- 
ated the new design with a little stamp of her foot. 

“ Long ago, when I was a girl, I began to believe in self- 
denial, and high ideals, and all that sort of thing. But 
you can’t work it in with your everyday life. It is all a 
dream.” 

“ A dream ! ” said Mona, softly, — 

“ ‘ No, no, by all the martyrs and the dear dead Christ ! ’ 


A NEOPHYTE. 


197 


Everything else is a dream. That is real. That was your 
chance in life. You should have clung to it with both 
hands. Your soul is drowning now for want of it, in a sea 
of nothingness.” 

The revival preacher himself could scarcely have spoken 
more strongly, and Matilda felt a slight pleasurable return 
of the old excitement. She did not show it, however. 

“ It is easy to talk,” she said, “ but you don’t know what 
it is to be the richest people in a place like this. Pa and Ma 
won’t let anybody speak to us. I believe it will end in our 
never getting married at all. We shall be out of the wood 
before they find their straight stick.” 

“ My dear child, is marriage the end of life ? And even 
if it is, surely the girls who make good wives are those who 
are content to be the life and brightness of their home cir- 
cle, and who are not constantly straining theii eyes in 
search of the knight-errant who is to deliver them from 
Giant Irksome.” 

In the course of her life in London, Mona had met 
many girls who chafed at home duties, and longed for a 
‘ sphere,’ but a girl who longed for a husband, qua husband, 
was so surprising an instance of atavism as to be practically 
a new type. 

Matilda sighed. “ You don’t know what our home life 
is,” she said. “ We pay calls, and people call on us ; we go 
for proper walks along the highroad ; we play on the piano 
and we do crewel-work ; we get novels from the library, — 
and that is all. Just the same thing over and over again.” 

“ And don’t you care enough for books and music to find 
scope in them ? ” 

Matilda shook her head. “ Can you read German ? ” 
she asked abruptly, looking at Mona’s book. 

“ Yes ; do you?” 

“ No ; and I never in my life met any one who could, 
unless perhaps my German teachers. I took it for three 
years at school, but I should not know one word in ten now. 
I wish I did ! We had a nice row, I can tell you, when I 
first came home from school, and Father brought in a Ger- 
man letter from the office one day. He actually expected 
me to be able to read it ! ” 

“ You could easily learn. It only wants a little dogged 
resolution, — enough to worry steadily through one German 


198 


MONA MACLEAN. 


story-book with a dictionary. After that the neck of the 
difficulty is broken.” 

Matilda made a grimace. “ I have only got Bilderbuch ,” 
she said, “ and I know the English of that by heart, from 
hearing the girls go over and over it in class. Start me off, 
and I can go on ; but I can scarcely tell you which word 
stands for moon.” 

She was almost startled at her own frankness. She had 
never talked like this to any one before. 

“You know I am not going to take you at your own 
valuation. Let me judge for myself,” and Mona opened 
her book at the first page and held it out. 

Matilda put her hands up to her face. “Don't!” she 
said. “ I couldn’t bear to let you see how little I know. 
But I will try to learn. I will begin Bilderbuch this very 
night, though I hate it as much as I do Lycidas and Ham- 
let , and everything else I read at school.” 

Mona shivered involuntarily. “ Don’t read anything you 
are sick of,” she said. “ If you like, I will lend you an in- 
teresting story that will tempt you on in spite of yourself.” 

“ Thanks awfully. You are very kind.” 

“ I shall be very glad to help you if you get into a real 
difficulty.” Mona paused. “ As I said before, I have no 
right to exact a promise from you — but I can’t tell you how 
much more highly I should think of you if you did worry on 
to the end.” 

The conclusion of this sentence took Matilda bjr surprise. 
She had imagined that Mona was going back to the subject 
of the drawing-master, but Mona seemed to have forgotten 
the existence of everything but German books. 

“ And may I come here sometimes in the afternoon, and 
talk to you? I often see you go down to the beach.” 

“ I never know beforehand when I shall be able to come ; 
but, if you care to take the chance, I shall always be glad to 
see you.” 

“ The new Adam will,” she said to herself, with a half- 
amused, half-rueful smile, when her visitor had gone, “ but 
the old Adam will have a tussle for his rights.” 

A moment later Matilda re-appeared, shy and awkward. 

“ Would you mind telling me again that thing you said 
about the martyrs ? ” 

Mona smiled. “ If you wait a moment, I will write it 


A NEOPHYTE. 


199 


down for you ; ” and, tearing a leaf from her notebook, she 
wrote out the whole verse — 

“No, no, by all the martyrs, and the dear dead Christ; 

By the long bright roll* of those whom joy enticed 
With her myriad blandishments, but could not win, 

Who would fight for victory, but would not sin.” 

Matilda read it through, and then carefully folded the 
paper. In doing so she noticed some writing on the back 
and read aloud — 

“ Lady Munro, Poste Restante, Cannes.” “ Who is Lady 
Munro ? ” she asked, with unintentional rudeness. 

“ She is my aunt. I did not know her address was writ- 
ten there.” Mona tore off the name, and handed back the 
slip of paper. 

“ Lady Munro your aunt, and you live with Miss Simp- 
son ? ” 

“ Why not ? Miss Simpson is my cousin.” 

“ Miss Maclean, if I had a ‘ Lady ’ for my aunt, every- 
body should know it. I don’t believe I should even travel 
in a railway carriage, without the other passengers finding it 
out.” 

Mona laughed. “ I have already told you that I don’t 
mean to take you at your own valuation. In point of fact, 
I had much rather the people here knew nothing about 
Lady Munro. I should not like others to draw comparisons 
between her and Miss Simpson.” 

“ I beg your pardon. I did not mean — ” 

“ Oh, I know you did not mean any harm. It was my 
own stupidity ; but, as I say, I should not like others to talk 
of it. Auf Wiedersehen ! ” 

Alone once more, Mona clasped her hands behind her 
head, and looked out over the sea. 

“ Well, playfellow,” she said, “ have I done good or harm ? 
At the present moment, as she walks home, she does not 
know whether to venerate or to detest me. It is an even 
chance which way the scale will turn. And is it all an affair 
of infinite importance, or does it not matter one whit?” 

This estimate of Matilda’s state of mind was a shrewd 
one, except for one neglected item. Now that the moment 
of impulse was over, the balance might have been even ; but 
Lady Munro’s name had turned the scale, and Matilda ‘ ven- 


200 


MONA MACLEAN. 


erated ’ her new friend. Mona’s strong and vivid personal- 
ity would have made any one forget in her presence that she 
was ‘ only a shop-girl ’ ; but no power on earth could pre- 
vent the recollection from returning — perhaps with renewed 
force — when her immediate influence was withdrawn. If a 
man of culture like Dr. Dudley could not wholly ignore the 
fact of her social inferiority, how much less was it possible 
to an empty little soul like Matilda Cookson ; for she was 
one of those people to whose moral and spiritual progress an 
earthly crutch is absolutely essential. She never forgot that 
conversation at Castle Maclean, but the two things that in 
after years stood out most clearly in her memory were the 
quotation about the martyrs, and Mona’s relationship to 
Lady Munro. And surely this is not so strange ? Do not 
even the best of us stand with one foot on the eternal rock, 
and the other on the shifting sands of time ? 

“ How odd that she should be struck by that quotation ! ” 
mused Mona. “ I wonder what Dr. Dudley would say if he 
knew that the notes of the Pilgrims’ Chorus, rising clear, 
steady, and unvarying above all the noises of the Tvorld, ap- 
pealed even to the stupid little ears of Matilda Cookson. If 
the mother is no more than he says, there must be some 
good stuff in the father. Ex nihilo , nihil fit.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE COLOHEL’S YARH. 

The next morning brought Mona a budget of letters 
on the subject of Lucy’s visit to the Riviera. Lady Munro 
had risen to the occasion magnificently. “ If your friend 
is in the least like you,” she wrote, “I shall be only too 
glad to have her as a companion for Evelyn. I have writ- 
ten to ask her to be my guest for a month, and the sooner 
she comes the better.” 

“ I l^ve only known you for a few years,” wrote Lucy, 
“and I seem to have grown tired of saying that I don’t 
know how to thank you. It will be nuts for me to go to 


THE COLONEL’S YARN. 


201 


Cannes, without feeling that my father is living on hasty- 
pudding at home ; and it will be a great thing to be with 
people like the Munros ; but if they expect that I am going 
to live up to your level, I shall simply give up the ghost at 
once. I have written to assure them that I am an utter 
and unmitigated fraud ; but do you tell them the same, in 
case there should be bloodshed on my arrival. 

“ As for your dear letter and enclosure, I handed them 
straight over to Father, and asked him what I was to do. 
He read the letter twice through carefully, and then gave 
me back — the bank-note only ! ‘ Keep it,’ he said briefly, 
and I fancied — I say I fancied — that there was a suspicious 
dimness about his eyes. You have indeed made straight 
tracks for the Pater’s heart, Mistress Mona, if he allows his 
daughter to accept twenty pounds from you. 

“ Allowing for all the expenses of the journey, I find I 
can afford two gowns and a hat, and much anxious thought 
the selection has given me, I assure you. One thing I 
have absolutely settled on — a pale sea-green Liberty silk, 
with suggestions of foam ; and when I decided on that, I 
came simultaneously to another decision, that life is worth 
living after all. 

“ I only wish I felt perfectly sure that you could afford 
it, darling. You told me you were getting nothing new 
for yourself this winter, &c., &c.” 

Finally, there was a little note from Mr. Reynolds to his 
“ elder daughter,” — a note in no way remarkable for origi- 
nality, yet full of that personal, life-giving influence which 
is worth a thousand brilliant aphorisms. 

Mona was very busy in the shop that morning, but in 
her spare minutes she contrived to write a letter to Lucy. 

“ I do not wish to put you in an awkward position,” she 
wrote, “ but I think you have sufficient ingenuity and re- 
source to keep me out of difficulties also. You know that 
when I promised to go to my cousin, I had not even seen 
the Munros. I met them immediately afterwards ; and our 
intimacy has ripened so rapidly that I should not now think 
it right to take an important step in life without at least 
letting them know. I mean to tell them ultimately about 
my winter in Borrowness ; but nothing they could say 
would alter my opinion of my obligation to remain here, 
and I think I am justified in wishing to avoid useless fric- 


202 


MONA MACLEAN. 


tion in the meantime. You can imagine what the situation 
would be, if Sir Douglas were to appear in the shop some 
fine morning, and demand my instant return to civilised 
life. He is quite capable of doing it, and I am very anxious 
if possible to avoid such a clumsy denouement. You will 
see at a glance how inartistic it would be. 

“ You will tell me that it is absolutely impossible to 
conceal the truth, but I do not think you will find it so 
when you get to Cannes. It is very doubtful whether you 
will see Sir Douglas at all — he is looking forward so much 
to the pheasant-shooting ; and Lady Munro is not the per- 
son to ask questions except in a general sort of way. She 
exists far too gracefully for that. You can honestly say, if 
needful, that I am very busy, but that I have not yet re- 
turned to town ; I don’t think you will find it necessary to 
say even that. 

“ But show me up a thousand times over rather than 
sail nearer the wind than your conscience approves. I 
merely state the position, and I know you will appreciate 
my difficulty quite as fully as I do myself. 

“ Please don’t have the smallest scruple about accepting 
the money. When I told you I was ‘ on the rocks,’ I did 
not mean it in the sense in which a young man about town 
would use the expression. My debts did not amount to 
more than twenty or thirty pounds. All things in life are 
relative, you see. I spent nothing in Norway, and my cousin 
will not hear of my paying for my board here. She is kind 
enough to say that, even pecuniarily, she is richer since I 
came. Of course I do not want any more gowns ; I go no- 
where, and see no one. Doris tells me she is studying 
medicine — by proxy. I am glad to think that I shall be 
shining in society this winter — also by proxy. I hope I 
may have the good fortune to see you in your new r6le 
of mermaid before the run is over. I am sure it will be a 
very successful one. 

“ Please give your father my most dutiful love, and tell 
him that I will answer his kind note in a day or two.” 

The writing of this letter, together with a few grateful 
lines to Lady Munro, occupied all Mona’s spare time before 
dinner ; and as soon as the unbeautiful meal was over, she 
set off at last to the Colonel’s wood. 

“ If the scale has turned against me, Matilda Cookson 


THE COLONEL’S YARN. 


203 


will not go to Castle Maclean,” she reflected. “ If it haf 
turned in my favour, it will do her no harm to look for me in 
vain.” 

She had to walk into Kirkstoun, and then strike up 
country for two or three miles ; but before she had proceed- 
ed far on her way, she met Mr. Brown. 

“ So you have got back,” he said, looking very shy and 
uncomfortable. 

“ Yes, I have been back for some days.” 

“ How is Miss Simpson ? ” 

“ She is very well, thank you.” 

“ Were you going anywhere in particular ? ” 

“I am going to Barntoun Wood, but don’t let me take 
# you out of your way,” she said. 

He did not answer, but walked by her side into town. 

“ Do you take ill with the smell of tobacco? ” he asked, 
taking his pipe from his pocket. 

“ Not in the least.” 

“ Have you been doing any more botanising ? ” 

“ I have not had time. Thank you so much for sending 
me that box of treasures. Some of them interested me 
greatly.” 

“ I thought you would like them. Will you be able to 
come again some day, and hunt for yourself ? ” 

“ Is not it getting too late in the year ? ” 

“ Not for the mosses and lichens and seaweeds. Have 
you gone into them at all ? ” 

“Not a bit. They must be extremely interesting, but 
very difficult.” 

“ Oh, you get hold of the thread in time, especially with 
the mosses. The Algae and Fungi are a tremendous subject 
of course. One can only work a bit on the borders of it. 
But if you care to come for a few more rambles, I could 
soon show you the commonest things we have, and a few of 
the rarer ones.” 

“ I should like it immensely. Could your sister come 
with us ? ” 

“Oh, yes ; she was not really tired that day. It was just 
that her boot was too tight. I had a laugh at her when we 
got home.” 

“ Well, I suppose we part company here. I am going 
out to Colonel Lawrence’s.” 


204 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I am not doing anything particular this afternoon. I 
could walk out with you.” 

The words were commonplace, but something in his 
manner startled Mona. 

As regarded the gift of utterance, Mr. Brown was not 
many degrees removed from the dumb creation. He could 
discuss a cashmere with the traveller, a right-of-way with a 
fellow-townsman, or a bit of local gossip with his sisters. 
He could talk botany to a clever young woman, and he 
could blurt out in honest English the fact that he wanted 
her to be his wife ; but of love-making as an art, of the deli- 
cate crescendo by which women are won in spite of them- 
selves, he was as ignorant as a child. It was natural and 
easy to his mind to make one giant stride from botany to « 
marriage; and it never occurred to him that the woman 
might require a few of those stepping-stones which develop- 
ing passion usually creates for the lover, and which savoir 
vivre teaches the man of the world to place deliberately. 

“ Thank you very much,” said Mona ; “ but I could not 
think of troubling you. I am well used to going about 
alone.” She held out her hand, but, as he did not immedi- 
ately take it, she bowed cordially, and left him helplessly 
watching her retreating figure. 

She passed the museum, and, leaving the town behind 
her, walked out among the fields. Most of the corn had 
been gathered in, but a few stooks still remained here and 
there to break the monotony of the stubble-grown acres. 
Trees in that district were so rare that one scraggy syca- 
more by the roadside had been christened Balmarnie Tree, 
and served as an important landmark ; while, for many 
miles around, the Colonel’s tiny wood stood out as a feature 
of the landscape, the little freestone cottage peeping from 
beneath the dark shade of the pines like a rabbit from its 
burrow. 

“ It seems to me, my dear,” she said to herself, “ that 
you are rather a goose. Are you only seventeen, may I ask, 
that you should be alarmed by a conversation from Ollen- 
dorf ? But all the same, if Miss Brown’s shoe pinches her 
next time, my shoe shall pinch me too.” 

She passed Wester and Easter Barntoun, the two large 
farms that constituted the greater part of the estate ; and 
then a quarter of an hour’s walk brought her to Barntoun 


THE COLONEL’S YARN. 


205 


Wood. A few small cottar-houses stood within a stone’s 
throw of the gate, but the place seemed curiously lonely to 
be the chosen home of an old man of the world. Yet there 
could be no doubt that it was a gentleman’s residence. A 
well-trained beech hedge surmounted the low stone dyke, 
from whose moss-grown crannies sprang a forest of poly- 
pody, and a few graceful fronds of wild maidenhair. The 
carriage-drive was smooth and well-kept, but, on leaving it, 
one plunged at once into the shade of the trees, with gen- 
erations of pine-needles underfoot, and the weird cooing of 
wood-pigeons above one’s head. Mona longed to explore 
those mysterious recesses, but there was no time for that 
to-day. She walked straight up to the house and knocked. 

She was met in the doorway by the quaintest old man 
she had ever beheld. His clean-shaven face was a network 
of wrinkles, and he wore a nut-brown wig surmounted by a 
red night-cap. 

“ Who are you ? ” he asked abruptly. 

“ I am Mona Maclean.” Some curious impulse prompted 
her to add, for the first time during her stay at Borrowness, 
not “ Miss Simpson’s cousin,” but, “ Gordon Maclean’s 
daughter.” 

He seized her almost roughly by the shoulder, and 
turned her face to the light. 

“ By Gad, so you are ! ” he exclaimed, “ though you are 
not so bonny as your mother was before you. But come in, 
come in ; and tell me all about it.” 

He opened the door of an old-fashioned, smoke-seasoned 
parlour, and Mona went in. 

“ But I did not mean to disturb you,” she said. “ I 
came to see Jenny.” 

“ Tut, tut, sit down, sit down ! Jenny, damn ye, come 
and put a spunk to this fire. There’s a young lady here.” 

The old woman came in, bobbing to Mona as she passed. 
She was not at all surprised to see Miss Simpson’s assistant 
in her master’s parlour. One of Jenny’s chief qualifica- 
tions for her post of housekeeper was the fact that she had 
long ceased to speculate about the Colonel’s vagaries. 

u I wonder what I have got that I can offer you ? ” said 
the old man meditatively. He unlocked a small sideboard, 
produced from it some rather mouldy sweet biscuits, and 
poured out a glass of wine. 


MONA MACLEAN. 


206 

“ That’s lady’s wine,” he said, “ so you need not be afraid 
of it. It’s not what I drink myself.” He laughed, and, 
helping himself to a small glass of whisky, he looked across 
at his visitor. 

“ Here’s to old times and Gordon Maclean ! ” he said, 
“ the finest fellow that ever kept open house at Simla,” and 
he tossed off the whisky at a gulp. 

Mona drank the toast, and smiled through a sudden and 
blinding mist of tears. It was meat and drink to her to 
hear her father’s praise even on lips like these. 

“ Come, come, don’t fret,” said the Colonel kindly. “ He 
was a fine fellow, as I say, but I think he knew the way to 
heaven all the same.” 

“ I am quite sure of that.” 

“ That’s right, that’s right. Where are you stopping — 
the Towers ? — Balnamora ? ” 

“ No, no ; I am staying at Borrowness, with my cousin 
Miss Simpson.” 

He stared at her blankly. 

“ Miss Simpson ? ” he said, “ Rachel Simpson ! ” His 
jaw dropped, and, throwing back his head on the top of his 
chair, he burst into an unpleasant laugh. 

“ Your father was a rich man, though he died young,” 
he said, recovering himself suddenly. “ He must have left 
you a tidy little portion.” 

“ So he did,” said Mona. “ Things were sadly misman- 
aged after his death ; but in the end I got what was quite 
sufficient for me.” 

“ You have had a good education ? — learned to sing, and 
parley-voo, and ” — he ran his fingers awkwardly up and 
down the table — “ this sort of thing ? ” 

Mona laughed. “ Yes,” she said, “ I have learned all 
that.” 

He puffed away at his pipe for a time in silence. 

“ Why are you not with the Munros ? ” he said abruptly. 
“ With Munro’s eye for a pretty young woman, too ! ” 

“ The Munros took me to Norway this summer. Sir 
Douglas is kindness itself, and so is Lady Munro ; but Miss 
Simpson is my cousin.” 

He laughed again, the same discordant laugh. 

. “ Drink your wine, Miss Maclean,” he said, “ and I will 
spin you a bit of a yarn. Maybe some of it will be news to you. 


THE COLONEL’S YARN. 


207 


“ A great many years before you were born, my grand- 
father was the laird of all this property. Your father’s 
people, the Macleans, were tenants on the estate — respecta- 
ble, well-to-do tenants, in a small way. Your grandfather 
was a remarkable man, cut out for success from his cradle, 
— always at the top of his class at school, don’t you know ? 
always keen to know what made the wheels go round, always 
ready to touch his hat to the ladies. His only brother, 
Sandy, was a ne’er-do-weel who never came to anything, 
but your grandfather soon became a rich man. There were 
two sisters, and each took after one of the brothers, so to 
say. Margaret was a fine, strapping, fair-spoken wench; 
Ann was a poor fusionless thing, who married the first man 
that asked her. Margaret never married. The best grain 
often stands. 

“ Your grandfather had, let me see, three children — two 
boys and a girl. A boy and girl died. It was a sad story — 
you’ll know all about it ? — fine healthy children, too ! But 
your father was a chip of the old block. He had a first-rate 
education, and then he went to India and made a great 
name for himself. I never knew a man like him. People 
opened their hearts and homes to him wherever he went. 
Not a door that was closed to him, and yet he never forgot 
an old friend. Well, the first time he came home, like the 
gentleman he was, he must needs look up his people here. 
Most of them were dead. Sandy had gone to Australia; 
there were only Ann’s children, Rachel Simpson and her 
sister Jane. Jane had married a small shopkeeper, and had 
a boy and girl of her own. They were very poor, so he 
made each of them a yearly allowance. 

“ Well, he was visiting with his young wife at a house 
not a hundred miles from here, and the two of them were 
the life of the party. I know all about it, because I came 
to stay at the house myself a day or two before they left. 
After they had gone — after they had gone , mark ye ! — who 
should come to call at the house in all their war-paint but 
Rachel Simpson and her sister ! And, by Jove ! they were 
a queerish couple. Rachel had notions of her own about 
dress in those days, I can tell you.” 

Mona blushed crimson. No one who knew Rachel could 
have much doubt that the story was true. 

“ They announced themselves as ‘ Gordon Maclean’s 


208 


MONA MACLEAN. 


cousins,’ and of course they were civilly received ; but the 
footman got orders that if they called again his mistress was 
not at home. I had a pretty good inkling that Maclean was 
providing them with funds, so I thought it only right to tip 
him a wink. He took it amazingly well — he was a good 
fellow ! — but I believe he gave his fair cousins pretty plainly 
to understand that, though he was willing to share his 
money, his friends were his own till he chose to introduce 
them. I never heard of their playing that little game again, 
for, after all, the funds were of even more importance than 
the high connections. But they never forgave your father. 
They always thought that he might have pulled them up 
the ladder with him — ha, ha, ha ! a pretty fair weight they 
would have been ! ” 

Mona did not laugh. Nothing could make the least 
difference now, but she did wish she had heard this story 
before. 

“You did not know old Simpy in your father’s time?” 

Mona hesitated. She was half inclined to resent the in- 
sulting diminutive, but what was the use? The Colonel 
took liberties with every one, and perhaps he could tell her 
more. 

No,” she said. “ I vaguely knew that I had a cousin, 
but I never thought much about it till she wrote to me a 
few years ago.” 

“ The deuce she did ! To borrow money, I’ll be bound. 
That nephew of hers was a regular sink for money, till he 
and his mother died. But Simpy should be quite a million- 
aire now. She has her allowance, and a little money besides 
— let alone the shop ! She is not sponging on you now, I 
hope ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Mona, warmly. “ On the contrary, I am 
staying here as her guest.” 

He burst out laughing again. 

“ Rather you than me ! ” he said. “ But well you may ; 
it is all your father’s money, first or last.” 

Mona rose to go. 

“ I am glad you have told me all this,” she said, “ though 
it was rather depressing.” 

“ Depressing ? Hoot, havers ! It will teach you how to 
treat Rachel Simpson for the future. I have a likeness of 
your father and mother here. Would you like to see it ? ” 


THE COLONEL’S YARN. 


209 


“ Very much indeed. It may be one I have never seen.” 

He took up a shabby old album, and turned his back 
while he found the place; but a page must have slipped 
over by accident in his shaky old hands, for when Mona 
looked she beheld only a vision of long white legs and flying 
j gauzy petticoats. 

“ Damnation ! ” shouted the old man, and, snatching 
the book away, he hastily corrected his mistake. 

It was all right this time. No living faces were so fa- 
miliar to Mona as were those of the earnest, capable man, 
and the beautiful, queenly woman in the photograph. 

“ I have never seen this before,” she said. “ It is very 
good.” 

“ I’ll leave it to you in my will, eh ? It will be worth as 
much as most of my legacies.” 

“ If everything you leave is as much valued as that will 
be, your legatees will have much to be grateful for.” 

The old face furrowed up into a broad smile. “Well,” 
he said, “ I start for London to-night, but I hope we may 
meet again. I’ll send Jenny in to see you. We are good 
comrades, she and I — we never inquire into each other’s 
affairs.” 

Mona found it rather difficult to give her full attention 
to Jenny’s letters, interesting and characteristic as these 
were. One was addressed to a sailor brother ; another to 
Maggie, and the latter was not at all unlike a quaint para- 
phrase of Polonius’s advice to his son. The poor woman’s 
mind was apparently ill at ease about the child of her old age. 

“ I suld hae keepit her by me,” she said. “ She’s ower 
young tae fend for hersel’ ; but it was a guid place, an’ she 
was that keen tae gang, puir bit thing ! ” 

“ I do think it would be well if you could get her a good 
place somewhere in the neighbourhood,” said Mona ; “ and 
I should not think it would be difficult.” 

“ Ay, but she maun bide her year. It’s an ill beginning 
tae shift e’er the twel’month’s oot. We maun e’en thole.” 

But Jenny forgot her forebodings in her admiration of 
Mona’s handwriting. 

“ I can maist read it mysel’,” she said. “ Ye write lood 
oot, like the print i’ the big Bible.” 


14 


210 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“YONDEE SHINING LIGHT.” 

Miss Simpson’s shop had undeniably become one of the 
lions of Borrowness. An advertisement in the Kirkstoun 
Gazette would have been absolutely useless, compared with 
the rumour which ran from mouth to mouth, and which 
brought women of all classes to see the novelties for them- 
selves. Rachel had to double and treble her orders when 
the traveller came round, and it soon became quite impos- 
sible for her and Mona to leave the shop at the same time. 

“ I find it a little difficult to do as you asked me about 
reading,” Mona wrote to Mr. Reynolds, “ for the shop-keep- 
ing really has become hard work, calling for all one’s re- 
sources ; and my cousin naturally expects me to be sociable 
for a couple of hours in the evening. I keenly appreciate, 
however, what you said about beginning the work leisurely, 
and leaving a minimum of strain to the end ; so I make it 
a positive duty to read for one hour a-day, and, as a general 
rule, the hour runs on to two. When my six months here 
are over, I will take a short holiday, and then put myself 
into a regular tread-mill till July; and I will do my very 
best to pass. What you said to me that night is perfectly 
true. I have read too much con amove, going as far afield 
as my fancy led me, and neglecting the old principle of ‘ line 
upon line ; precept upon precept.’ It certainly has been my 
experience, that wisdom comes, but knowledge lingers ; and 
I mean this time, as a Glasgow professor says, to stick to a 
policy of limited liability, and learn nothing that will not 
pay. That is what the examiners want, and they shall not 
have to tell me so a third time ! 

“ Forgive me this bit of pique. It is an expiring flame. 
I don’t really cherish one atom of resentment in my heart. 
I admit that I was honestly beaten by the rules of the 
game ; and, from the point of view of the vanquished, there 
is nothing more to be said. I will try to leave no more 
loose ends in my life, if I can help it, and I assure you my 
resolution in this respect is being subjected to a somewhat 
stern test here. 

“It was very wise and very kind of you to make me talk 


“ YONDER SHINING LIGHT.’ 


211 


the whole subject out. I should not be so hard and prig- 
gish as I am, if, like Lucy, I had had a father.” 

One morning when Rachel was out, three elderly ladies 
entered the shop. They were short, thick-set, sedate, unob- 
trusively dignified, and at a first glance they all looked exactly 
alike. At a second glance, however, certain minor points of 
difference became apparent. One had black cannon-curls on 
each side of her face ; one wore an eyeglass ; and the third 
was easily differentiated by the total absence of all means of 
differentiation. 

“ I hear Miss Simpson has got a remarkable collection of 
new things,” said the one with the curls. 

“Not at all remarkable, I fear,” said Mona, smiling. 
“ But she has got a number of fresh things from London. 
If you will sit down, I will show you anything you care to 
see.” 

If Mona was brusque and cavalier in her treatment of 
her fellow-students, nothing could exceed the gentle respect 
with which she instinctively treated women older than her- 
self. She had that inborn sense of the privileges and rights 
of age which is perhaps the rarest and most lovable attribute 
of youth. 

The ladies remained for half an hour, and they spent 
three-and-six. 

“ I think I have seen you sometimes at the Baptist 
Chapel,” said the one with the eyeglass, as they rose to go. 

“ Yes, I have been there sometimes with my cousin.” 

“ Have you been baptised ? ” asked the one who had no 
distinguishing feature. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Mona, rather taken aback by the question. 

“ I notice you don’t stay to the Communion,” said the 
one with the curls. 

“ I was baptised in the Church of England.” 

“ Oh ! ” said all three at once, in a tone that made Mona 
feel herself an utter fraud. 

“ You must have a talk with Mr. Stuart,” said the one 
with the eyeglass, recovering herself first. Every one agreed 
that she was the “ cliverest ” of the sisters. 

“ Yes,” said the others, catching eagerly at a method of 
reconciling Christian charity and fidelity to principle ; and, 
with enquiries after Miss Simpson, they left the shop. 


212 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ It would be the Miss Bonthrons,” said Rachel, when 
she heard Mona’s description of the new customers. “ They 
are a great deal looked up to in Kirkstoun. Their father 
was senior deacon in the Baptist Chapel for years, and the 
pulpit was all draped with black when he died. He has 
left them very well provided for, too.” 

Meanwhile Matilda Cookson had found an object in life, 
and was happy. It was well for her that her enthusiastic 
devotion to Mona was weighted by the ballast of conscien- 
tious work, or her last state might have been worse than her 
first. As it was, she laboured hard, and when her family 
enquired the cause of her sudden fit of diligence, she took a 
pride in looking severely mysterious. Miss Maclean was a 
princess in disguise, and she was the sole custodian of the 
great secret. The constant effort to refrain from confiding 
it, even to her sister, was, in its way, as valuable a bit of 
moral discipline as was the laborious translation of the 
Geier - Wally. 

“ I would have come sooner,” she said one day to Mona 
at Castle Maclean, “ but my people can’t see why I want to 
walk on the beach at this time of year, and it is so difficult 
to get rid of Clarinda. Of course if they knew you were 
Lady Munro’s niece they would be only too glad that I 
should meet you anywhere, but I have not breathed a syllable 
of that.” 

She spoke with pardonable pride. She had not yet 
learned to spare Mona’s feelings, and the latter sighed in- 
voluntarily. 

“ Thank you,” she said ; “ but I don’t want you to meet 
me ‘ on the sly.’ ” 

“ I thought of that. Mother would not be at all pleased 
at my getting to know you as things are, or as she thinks 
they are ; but if there was a row, and she found out that 
you were Lady Munro’s niece, she would more than forgive 
me. You will tell people who you are some time, won’t 
you ? ” 

For, after all, in what respect is a princess in disguise 
better than other people, if the story has no denouement ? 

“ I wish very much,” said Mona, patiently, “ that you 
would try to see the matter from my point of view. I have 
taken no pains to prevent people from finding out who my 
other relatives are ; but, as a matter of personal taste, I pre- 


“YONDER SHINING LIGHT.' 


213 


fer that they should not talk of it. Besides, it is just as 
unpleasant to me to be labelled Lady Munro’s niece, as to 
be labelled Miss Simpson’s cousin. People who really care 
for me, care for myself.” 

Matilda had been straining her eyes in the direction of 
“ yonder shining light,” and she certainly thought she saw 
it. The difficulty was to keep it in view when she was talk- 
ing to her mother or Clarinda. 

# “ You know I care for you yourself,” she said. “ I don’t 
think I ever cared for anybody so much in my life.” 

“ Hush-sh ! It is not wise to talk like that when you 
know me so little. If the scale turns, you will hate me all 
the more because you speak so strongly now.” 

“ Hate you ! ” laughed Matilda, with the sublime con- 
fidence of eighteen. 

“ How goes Geier - Wally ? ” 

Mona had a decided gift for teaching, and the next half- 
hour passed pleasantly for both of them. Then, in a very 
shamefaced way, Matilda drew a letter from her pocket. 
“ I wanted to tell you,” she said, “ I have been writing to — 
to — my friend.” 

Her face turned crimson as she spoke. She had met 
Mona several times, but this was the first reference either of 
them had made to the original subject of debate. 

“ Have you ? ” said Mona, quietly. 

“Yes. Would you mind reading the letter? I should 
like to know if there is anything I ought to alter.” 

Mona read the letter. It was headed by a showy crest 
and address-stamp, and it was without exception the most 
pathetic and the most ridiculous production she had ever 
seen. It was very long, and very sentimental ; it made re- 
peated reference to “ your passionate love ” ; and, to Mona’s 
horror, it wound up with the line about the martyrs. 

However, it had one saving feature. Between the begin- 
ning and the end, Matilda did contrive to give expression to 
the conviction that she had done wrong in meeting her cor- 
respondent, and to the determination that she never would 
do it again. Compared with this everything else mattered 
little. 

“ Is that what you would have said ? ” she asked eagerly, 
as Mona finished reading it. 

“ It would be valueless if it were,” said Mona, smiling. 


214 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ He wants your views, not mine. But in quoting that line 
you are creating for yourself a lofty tradition that will not 
always be easy to live up to. I speak to myself as much as 
to you, for it was I who set you the example — for evil or 
good. You and I burn our boats when we allow ourselves 
to repeat a line like that.” 

“ I want to burn them,” said Matilda eagerly, only half 
understanding what was in Mona’s mind. “ I am quite sure 
you have burned yours. Then you don’t want me to write 
it over agjjin ? ” 

“Mo,” said Mona reflectively. “ You have said definitely 
what you intended to say, and few girls could have done as 
much under the circumstances. Moreover, you have said it 
in your own way, and that is better than saying it in some 
one else’s way. No, I would not write it over again.” 

“ Thanks, awfully. I am very glad you think it will do. 
It is a great weight off my mind to have it done. I owe a 
great deal to you, Miss Maclean.” 

“ I owe you a great deal,” said Mona, colouring. “ You 
have taught me a lesson against hasty judgment. When 
you came into the shop to buy blue ribbon, I certainly did 
not think you capable of that amount of moral pluck,” and 
she glanced at the letter on Matilda’s lap. 

“ What you must have thought of us ! ” exclaimed 
Matilda, blushing in her turn. “ Two stuck-up, provincial 
— cats ! Tell me, Miss Maclean, did Dr. Dudley know then 
— what I know about you ? ” 

Matilda was progressing. She saw that Mona winced at 
the unceasing reference to Lady Munro, so she attempted a 
periphrasis. 

“ He does not know now.” 

“ Then I shall like Dr. Dudley as long as I live. He is 
sarcastic and horrid, but he must be one of the people you 
were talking of the other day who see the invisible.” 

For Mona had got into the way of giving utterance to 
her thoughts almost without reserve when Matilda Cookson 
was with her. It was pleasant to see the look of rapt atten- 
tion on the girl’s face, and Mona did not realise — or realis- 
ing, she did not care — how little her companion understood. 
Mona’s talk ought to have been worth listening to in those 
days when her life was so destitute of companionship ; but 
the harvest of her thought was carried away by the winds 


MR. STUART’S TROUBLES. 


215 


and the waves, and only a few stray gleanings fell into the 
eager outstretched hands of Matilda Cookson. Yet the 
girl was developing, as plants develop on a warm damp day 
in spring, and Mona was unspeakably grateful to her. The 
Colonel’s story had not interfered with Mona’s determina- 
tion to “ take up each day with both hands, and live it with 
all her might ; ” but it certainly had not made it any easier 
to see the ideal in the actual. Here, however, was one little 
human soul who clung to her, depended on her, learnt from 
her ; and it would have been difficult to determine on which 
side the balance of benefit really lay. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MR. STUART’S TROUBLES. 

Very slowly the days and weeks went by, but at last 
the end of November drew near. The coast was bleak and 
cold now, and it was only on exceptionally fine days that 
Mona could spend a quiet hour at Castle Maclean. When 
she escaped from the shop she went for a scramble along 
the coast; and when physical exercise was insufficient to 
drive away the cobwebs, she walked out to the Colonel’s 
wood to see old Jenny, or farther still, beyond Kil winnie, 
to have a chat with Auntie Bell. 

With the latter she struck up quite a cordial friendship, 
and she had the doubtful satisfaction of hearing the Colo- 
nel’s yarn corroborated in Auntie Bell’s quaint language. 

“ Rachel’s queer, ye ken,” said Auntie Bell, as Mona took 
her farewell in the exquisitely kept, old-fashioned garden. 
“ She’s a’ for the kirk and the prayer-meetin’ ; an’ yet she’s 
aye that keen tae foregather wi’ her betters.” 

“ She wants to make the best of both worlds, I suppose,” 
said Mona. “ Poor soul ! I am afraid she has not succeed- 
ed very well as regards this one.” 

“ Na,” said Auntie Bell, tersely. “An’ between wersels, 
I hae ma doots o’ the ither.” 

Mona laughed. It was curious how she and Auntie 


216 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Bell touched hands across all the oceans that lay between 
them. 

“ Are ye muckle ta’en up wi’ this ‘ gran bazaar,’ as they 
ca’ it?” 

“ Mot a bit.” said Mona. “ I hate bazaars.” 

“ Eh, but we’re o’ ae mind there ! ” and Auntie Bell 
clapped her hands with sufficient emphasis to start an up- 
ward rush of crows from the field beyond the hedge. 

Nearly half the county at this time was talking of one 
thing and of only one — the approaching bazaar at Kirks- 
toun. It was almost incredible to Mona that so trifling 
an event should cause so much excitement ; but bazaars, 
like earthquakes, vary in importance according to the part 
of the world in which they occur. 

And this was no sale for church or chapel, at which the 
men could pretend to sneer, and which a good burgher 
might consistently refuse to attend ; it was essentially the 
bazaar of the stronger sex — except in so far as the weaker 
sex did all the work in connection with it ; it was for no 
less an object than the new town hall. 

For many years the inhabitants of Kirkstoun had felt 
that their town hall was a petty, insignificant building, out 
of all proportion to the size and importance of the burgh ; 
and after much deliberation they had decided on the bold 
step of erecting a new building, and of looking mainly to 
Providence — spelt with a capital, of course — for the funds. 

All this, however, was now rapidly becoming a matter 
of ancient history ; the edifice had been complete for some 
time ; about one-third of the expense had been defrayed ; 
and, in order that the debt might be cleared off with a clean 
sweep, the ladies of the town had “ kindly consented ” to 
hold a bazaar. 

“ Man’s extremity is woman’s opportunity ” had been 
the graceful, if not original, remark of one of the local 
bailies ; but men are proverbially ungrateful, and this view 
of the matter had not been the only one mooted. 

“ Kindly consented, indeed ! ” one carping spirit had 
growled. “ Pretty consent any of you would have given if 
it had not been an opportunity for dressing yourselves up 
and having a ploy. Whose pockets is all the money to 
come out of first or last? That’s what I would like to 
know ? ” 


MR. STUART’S TROUBLES. 


217 


It is quite needless to remark that the first of these 
speeches had been made on the platform, the second in 
domestic privacy. 

Like wildfire the enthusiasm had spread. All through 
the summer, needles had flown in and out ; paint-brushes 
had been flourished somewhat wildly ; cupboards had been 
ransacked ; begging-letters had been written to friends all 
over the country, and to every man who, in the memory of 
the inhabitants, had left Kirkstoun to make his fortune 
“ abroad.” 

It was very characteristic of “ Kirkstoun folk ” that not 
many of these letters had been written in vain. Kirkstoun 
men are clannish. Scatter as they may over the whole 
known world, they stand together shoulder to shoulder like 
a well-trained regiment. 

The bazaar was to be held for three days before Christ- 
mas, and was to be followed by a grand ball. Was not this 
excitement enough to fill the imagination of every girl for 
many miles around ? The matrons had a harder time of it, 
as they usually have, poor souls ! With them lay the solid 
responsibility of getting together a sufficiency of work — and 
alas for all the jealousies and heart-burnings this involved ! 
— with them lay the planning of ball- dresses that were to 
cost less, and look better, than any one else’s ; with them 
lay the necessity of coaxing and conciliating “ your papa.” 

Rachel Simpson was not a person of sufficient social im- 
portance to be a stall-holder, or a receiver of goods ; and she 
certainly was not one of those women who are content to 
work that others may shine, so Mona had taken little or no 
interest in the projected bazaar. 

One morning, however, she received a letter from Doris 
which roused her not a little. 

“Kirkstoun is somewhere near Borrowness, is it not ? 
wrote her friend. “ If so, I shall see you before Christmas. 
Those friends of mine at St. Rules, to whom you declined 
an introduction, have a stall at the Town Hall bazaar, and I 
am going over to assist them. It is a kind of debt, for they 
helped me with my last enterprise of the kind, but I should 
contrive to get out of it, except for the prospect of seeing you. 

“ You will come to the bazaar, of course : I should think 
you would be ready for a little dissipation by that time ; and 
I will promise to be merciful if you will visit my stall.” 


218 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“How delightful ! ” was Mona’s first thought; “how 
disgusting ! ” was her second ; “ how utterly out of keeping 
Doris will be with me and my surroundings ! ” was her con- 
clusion. “ Ponies and pepper-pots do not harmonise very 
well with shops and poor relations. But, fortunately, the 
situation is not of my making.” 

She was still meditating over the letter when Bachel 
came in looking flushed and excited. 

“ Mona,” she said, “ I have made a nice little engagement 
for you. You know you say you like singing? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mona, with an awful premonition of what 
might be coming. 

“ I met Mr. Stuart on the Kirkstoun road just now. He 
was that put about ! Two of his best speakers for the soiree 
to-night have fallen through, he says. Mr. Roberts has got 
the jaundice, and Mr. Dowie has had to go to the funeral of 
a friend. Mr. Stuart said the whole thing would be a fail- 
ure, and he was fairly at his wits’ end. You see there’s no 
time to do anything now. He said if he could get a song or 
a recitation, or anything, it would do ; so of course I told 
him you were a fine singer, and I was sure you would give 
us a song. You should have seen how his face brightened 
up. ‘ Capital,’ said he ; ‘I have noticed her singing in 
church. Perhaps she would give us “ I know that my Re- 
deemer liveth,” or something of that kind ? ’ ” 

“ My dear cousin,” said Mona, at last finding breath to 
speak, “ you might just as well ask me to give a perform- 
ance on the trapeze. I have never sung since I was in Ger- 
many. It is one thing to chirp to you in the firelight, and 
quite another to stand up on a public platform and perform. 
The thing is utterly absurd.” 

“Hoots,” said Rachel, “they are not so particular. 
Many’s the time I have seen them pleased with worse sing- 
ing than yours.” 

Then ensued the first “ stand-up fight ” between the two. 
As her cousin waxed hotter Mona waxed cooler, and finally 
she ended the discussion by setting out to speak to Mr. 
Stuart herself. 

She found him in his comfortable study, his slippered 
feet on the fender, and a polemico-religious novel in his 
hand. 

“ I am sorry to find my cousin has made an engagement 


MR. STUART’S TROUBLES. 


219 


for me this evening,” she said. “ It is quite impossible for 
me to fulfil it.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! ” he said, kindly. “ It is too late to 
withdraw now. Your name is in the programme,” and he 
glanced at the neatly written paper on his writing-table, as 
if it had been a legal document at the least. “ My wife is 
making copies of that for all the speakers. You can’t draw 
back now.” 

“ It might be too late to withdraw,” said Mona, “ if I 
had ever put myself forward ; but, although my cousin 
meant to act kindly to every one concerned, she and I are 
two distinct people.” 

“ Come, come ! Of course I quite understand your feel- 
ing a little shy, if you are not used to singing in public ; 
but you will be all right as soon as you begin. I remember 
f my first sermon — what a state I was in, to be sure ! And 
yet they told me it was a great success.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Mona. “ It is not mere nervous- 
ness and shyness — though there is that too, of course — it is 
simply that I am not qualified to do it.” 

“ W e are not very critical. There won’t be more than 
three persons present who know good singing from bad.” 

“ Unfortunately I should wish to sing for those three.” 

“ Ah,” he said, with a curl of his lip, “ you must have 
appreciation. The lesson some of us have got to learn in 
life, Miss Maclean, is to do without appreciation.” He 
paused, but her look of sudden interest was inviting. “ One 
is tempted sometimes to think that one could speak to so 
much more purpose in a world where there is some intellect- 
ual life, where people are not wholly blind to the problems 
of the day; but to preach Sunday after Sunday to those 
who have no eyes to see, no ears to hear, to suppress one’s 
best thoughts — ” 

He stopped short. 

“ It is a pity surely to do that, unless one is a prophet 
indeed.” 

“ Ah,” he said, “ you cannot understand my position. It 
is a singular one, unique perhaps. — You will sing for us to- 
night? ” 

“ Mr. Stuart,” said Mona, struggling against the tempta- 
tion to speak sharply, “ I should not have left my work to 
come heie in the busiest time of the day, if I had been pre- 


220 


MONA MACLEAN. 


pared to yield in the end. And indeed why should I ? There 
are plenty of people in the neighbourhood w T ho sing as well 
as I ; and people who are well known have a right to claim 
a little indulgence. I nave none. It is not even as if I 
were a member of the Chapel.” 

“ I hope you will be soon.” 

“ Well,” said Mona rising with a smile, “ you have more 
pressing claims on your attention at present than my con- 
version to Baptist principles. Good morning.” 

“ Yes,” he said, reproachfully, “ I must go out in this 
rain, and try to beat up a substitute for you. A country 
minister’s life is no sinecure, Miss Maclean ; and his work is 
doubled when he feels the necessity of keeping pace with 
the times.” He glanced at the book he had laid down. 

“ I suppose so,” said Mona, somewhat hypocritically. She 
longed to make a very different reply, but she was glad to 1 * 
escape on any terms. “ I wish you all success in your search. 
You will not go far before you find a fitter makeshift than I.” 

“ I doubt it,” he said, going with her to the door. “ Did 
any young lady’s education ever yet fit her to do a thing 
frankly and gracefully when she w r as asked to do it?” 

Mona sighed. “ Education is a long word, Mr. Stuart,” 
she said. “ It savours more of eternity than of time. ‘ So 
many worlds, so much to do.’ If we should meet in another 
life, perhaps I shall be able to sing for you then.” 

He was absolutely taken aback. What did she mean ? 
Was she really poaching in his preserves ? It was his privi- 
lege surely to give the conversation a religious turn, and he 
did not see exactly how she had contrived to do it. How- 
ever, it was his duty to rise to the occasion, even although 
the effort might involve a severe mental dislocation. 

“ I hope we shall sing together there,” he said, “ with 
crowns on our heads, and palms in our hands.” 

It was Mona’s turn to be taken aback. She had not 
realised the effect of her unconventional remarks, when 
tried by a conventional standard. 

“ Behiite Gott ! ” she said as she made her way home in 
the driving rain. “ There are worse fates conceivable than 
annihilation.” 

Rachel was severely dignified all day, but she was anxious 
that Mona should go with her to the soiree, so she was con- 
strained to bury the hatchet before evening. Mona was 


STRADIVAMUS. 


221 


much relieved when things had slipped back into their 
wonted course. Her life was a fiasco indeed if she failed to 
please Rachel Simpson. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

STRADIVARIUS. 

The Chapel doors were open, and a bright light streamed 
across the gravelled enclosure on to the dreary street beyond. 
People were flocking in, talking and laughing, in eager an- 
ticipation of pleasures to come ; and a number of hungry- 
eyed children clung to the railing, and gazed at the promise 
of good things within. 

And indeed the promise was a very palpable one. Mona 
had scarcely entered the outer door when she was presented 
with a large earthenware cup and saucer, a pewter spoon, 
and a well-filled baker’s bag. 

“ What am I to do with these ? ” she asked, aghast. 

“ Take them in with you, of course,” said Rachel. “ You 
can look inside the bag, but you mustn’t eat anything till the 
interval.” 

Mona thought she could so far control her curiosity as 
to await the appointed time, but her strength of mind was 
not subjected to this test. A considerable proportion of the 
j assembled congregation were children, and most of them 
were engaged in laying out cakes, sweet biscuits, apples, 
pears, figs, almonds, and raisins, in a tempting row on the 
book-board, somewhat to the detriment of the subjacent 
hymn-books. 

“ They ordered three hundred bags at threepence each,” 
said Rachel, in a loud whisper. “ It’s wonderful how much 
you get for the money ; and they say Mr. Philp makes a 
pretty profit out of it too. I suppose it’s the number makes 
it pay. The cake’s plain, to be sure ; I always think it would 
be better if it were richer, and less of it. But there’s the 
children to think of, of course.” 

At this moment a loud report echoed through the 


222 


MONA MACLEAN. 


church. Mona started, and had vague thoughts of gun- 
powder plots, but the explosion was only the work of an 
adventurous boy who had tied up his sweets in a handker- 
chief of doubtful antecedents, that he might have the satis- 
faction of blowing up and bursting his bag. This feat was 
pretty frequently repeated in the course of the evening, in 
spite of all the moral and physical influence brought to bear 
on the offenders, by Mr. Stuart and the parents respectively. 

The chapel was intensely warm when the speakers took 
their places on the platform, and Mona fervently hoped that 
Mr. Stuart had failed to find a stopgap, as the programme 
was already of portentous length. It seemed impossible that 
she could sit out the evening in such an atmosphere, and 
still more impossible that the bloodless, neurotic girl in front 
of her should do so. 

The first speaker was introduced by the chairman. 

“ Now for the moral windbags ! ” thought Mona, resign- 
edly. 

She felt herself decidedly snubbed, however, when the 
speeches were in full swing. The gift of speaking success- 
fully at a soiree is soon recognised in the world where soirees 
prevail, and the man who possesses it acquires a celebrity 
often extending beyond his own county. One or two of the 
speakers were men possessing both wit and humour, of a 
good Scotch brand ; and the others made up for their defi- 
ciencies in this respect by a clever and laborious patchwork 
of anecdotes and repartees, which, in the excitement of the 
moment, could scarcely be distinguished from the genuine 
mantle of happy inspiration. 

In the midst of one of the speeches a disturbance arose. 
The girl in front of Mona had fainted. Several men car- 
ried her out, shyly and clumsily, in the midst of a great com- 
motion ; and, after a moment’s hesitation, Mona followed 
them. She was glad she had done so, for fainting-fits were 
rare on that breezy coast, and no one else seemed to know 
what to do. Meanwhile the unfortunate girl was being held 
upright in the midst of a small crowd of spectators. 

“ Lay her down on the matting,” said Mona, quietly, “ and 
stand back, please, all of you. No, she wants nothing under 
her head. One of you might fetch some water — and a little 
whisky, if it is at hand. It is nothing serious. Mrs. 
Brander and I can do all that is required.” 


STRADIVARI US. 


223 


All the men started off for water at once, much to Mona’s 
relief. She loosened the girl’s dress, while the matron pro- 
duced smelling-salts, and in a few minutes the patient opened 
her eyes, with a deep sigh. 

44 Surely Kirkstoun is not her home,” said Mona, looking 
at the girl’s face. “ Sea-breezes have not had much to do 
with the making of her.” 

44 Na,” said the matron. “ She’s a puir weed. She’s vis- 
iting her gran’faither across the street. I’ll tak’ her hame.” 

44 No, no,” said Mona. “ Go back to the soiree, I’ll look 
after her.” 

44 Ye’ll miss your tea ! They’re takin’ roun’ the teapits 
the noo.” 

“ I have had tea, thank you,” and, putting a strong arm 
round the girl’s waist, Mona walked home with her, and saw 
her safely into bed. 

She hurried hack to the chapel, for she knew Rachel 
would be fretting about her ; but the night breeze was cold 
and fresh, and she dreaded returning to that heated, impure 
air. When she entered the door, however, she scarcely 
noticed the atmosphere, for the laughing and fidgeting had 
given place to an intense stillness, broken only by one rich 
musical voice. 

“ So my eye and hand, 

And inward sense that works along with both, 

Have hunger that can never feed on coin.” 

Mr. Stuart’s stopgap was filling his part of the programme. 

Mona hesitated at the door, and then quietly resumed her 
place at the end of the pew beside Rachel. The reader 
paused for a moment till she was seated, a scarcely percepti- 
ble shade of expression passed over his face, as her silk gown 
rustled softly up the aisle, and then he went on. 

It was a curious poem to read to such an audience, but 
even the boys and girls forgot their almonds and raisins as 
they listened to the beautiful voice. For Mona, the low 
ceiling, the moist walls, and the general air of smug squalor 
vanished like a dissolving view. In their place the infinite 
blue of an Italian sky rose above her head, the soft warm 
breeze of the south was on her cheek ; and she stood in the 
narrow picturesque street listening to the “plain white- 
aproned man,” with the light of the eternal in his eyes. 


221 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ ’Tis God gives skill, 

But not without men’s hands : He could not make 

Antonio Stradivari’s violins 

Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel.” 

It was over. There was a long breath, and a general 
movement in the chapel. Dudley took an obscure seat at 
the back of the platform, shaded his eyes with his hand, and 
looked at Mona- 

Again and again in London he had told himself that it 
was all illusion, that he had exaggerated the nobility of her 
face, the sensitiveness of her mouth, the subtle air of distinc- 
tion about her whole appearance ; and now he knew that he 
had exaggerated nothing. His eye wandered round the con- 
gregation, and came back to her with a sensation of infinite 
rest. Then his pulse began to beat more quickly. He was 
excited, perhaps, by the way in which that uncultured audi- 
ence had sat spellbound by his voice, for at that moment it 
seemed to him that he would give a great deal to call up the 
love-light in those eloquent eyes. 

“ She is a girl,” he thought, with quick intuition. “ She 
has never loved, and no doubt she believes she never will. 

I envy the man who forces her to own her mistake. She is 
no sweet white daisy to whom any man’s touch is sunshine. 
There are depths of expression in that face that have never 
yet been stirred. Happy man who is the first — perhaps the 
only one — to see them! He will have a long account to 
settle with Fortune.” 

And then Dudley pulled himself up short. Thoughts 
like these would not lead to success in his examination. 
And even if they would, what right had he to think them ? 
Till his Intermediate was over in July, he must speak to no 
woman of love ; and not until his Final lay behind him had 
he any right to think of marriage. And any day while he 
was far away in London the man might come — the man 
with the golden key — 

Dudley turned and bowed to the speaker in considerable 
confusion. . Some graceful reference had evidently been 
made to his reading, for there was a momentary pause in 
the vague droning that had accompanied ins day-dreams, 
and every one was looking at him with a cordial smile. 

. “ Who would have thought of Dr. Dudley being here?” 
said Rachel, as the cousins walked home. “ It is a great pity 


STR ADIV ARIUS. 


225 


his being so short-sighted ; he looks so much nicer without his 
spectacles. I wonder if he remembers what good friends 
we were that day at St. Rules?— I declare I believe that’s 
him behind us now.” 

She was right, and he was accompanied by no less a per- 
son than the Baptist minister. 

« I would ask you to walk out and have a bachelor’s sup- 
per with me, Stuart, by way of getting a little pure air into 
your lungs,” Dudley had said, as he threw on his heavy In- 
verness cape ; “ but it is a far cry, and I suppose you have a 
guest at your house to-night.” 

The minister had accepted with alacrity. He was tired, 
to be sure, but he would gladly have walked ten miles for the 
sake of a conversation with one of his “ intellectual peers.” 

“ I have no guest,” he said eagerly ; “ it was my man 
who failed me. I would ask you to come home with me, 
but there are things we cannot talk of before my wife. 

* Leave thou thy sister,’— you know.” 

A faint smile had flitted over Dudleys face at the 
thought of Mr. Stuart’s “ purer air.” ^ , 

So they set out, and in due course they overtook Rachel 
and Mona. * 

Mr. Stuart could scarcely believe his eyes when he saw 
Dr. Dudley actually slackening his pace to walk with them. 
It was right and Christian to be courteous, no doubt, but 
this was so utterly uncalled for. 

Dudley did not seem to think so, however. He ex- 
changed a few pleasant words with Rachel, and then, regard- 
less alike of her delight and of the minister’s irritation, he 
very simply and naturally walked on with Mona m advance 

of the other two. . 

Manv a time, when hundreds of miles had separated 
them Mona and Dudley had in imagination talked to each 
other frankly and simply ; but, now that they were together 
they both became suddenly shy and timid. What were their 
mutual relations ? Were they old friends, or mere acquaint- 
ances? Neither knew. 

The silence became awkward. 

“ Your reading was a great treat,” said Mona, somewhat 


formally at last. 

Anybody could have told him that, 
thing more from her. 


He wanted some- 


15 


226 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“I am glad if it did not bore you,’* he said cold- 
ly. 

She looked up. They were just leaving the last of the 
Kirkstoun street-lamps behind them, but in the uncertain 
light they exchanged a smile. That did more for them 
than many words. 

“ It is not poetry of course,” he said. “ It is only a 
magnificent instance of what my shaggy old Edinburgh 
professor would call ‘metrical intellection.”’ 

“And yet, surely, in a broader sense, it is poetry. It 
seems to me that that magnificent ‘ genius of morality ’ pro- 
duces art of a kind peculiarly its own. It is not cleverness ; 
it is inspiration — though it is not ‘poesie.’ In any case, 
you made it poetry for me. I saw the sunny, glowing street, 
and the blue sky overhead.” 

“Did you?” he said eagerly. “Truly? I am so glad. 
I had such a vivid mental picture of it myself, that I thought 
the brain-waves must carry it to some one. It is very dark 
here. W on’t you take my arm ? ” 

“ NTo, thank you ; I am well used to this road in the dark. 
By the way, I must apologise for disturbing your reading. 
I would have remained at the door, but I ^as afraid some 
man would offer me his seat, and that we should between us 
kick the foot-board, and knock down a few hymn-books be- 
fore we settled the matter.” 

“I was so relieved when you came forward and took 
your own place,” he said slowly, as though he were deter- 
mined that she should not take the words for an idle com- 
pliment. “ I have been watching that vacant corner beside 
Miss Simpson. How is Castle Maclean ? ” 

“ It is pretty well delivered over to the sea-gulls at pres- 
ent. I am afraid it must be admitted that Castle Maclean 
is more suited to a summer than to a winter residence. I 
often run down there, but these east winds are not sug- 
gestive of lounging.” 

“ Mot much,” he said. “ When I picture you there, it is 
always summer.” 

“ Oh,” said Mona suddenly, “ there is one thing that I 
must tell you. You remember a conversation we had about 
the Cooksons ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Matilda and I are great friends now, and I have had 


STRADIVARIUS. 227 

good reason to be ashamed of my original attitude towards 
her. I think it was you who put me right.” 

“ Indeed it "was not,” he said warmly. “ I, forsooth ! 
You put yourself right — if you were ever wrong.” 

“ I was wrong. And you — well, you took too high an 
estimate of me, and that is the surest way of putting people 
right. You have no idea how much good stuff there is in 
that child. She is becoming quite a German scholar ; and 
she has read Sesame and Lilies , has been much struck by 
that quotation from Coventry Patmore, and at the present 
moment is deep in Heroes. What do you say to that ? ” 

“ Score ! ” he said quietly. “ How did she come to know 
you?” 

“ Oh, by one of the strange little accidents of life. 
She has done me a lot of good, too. She is very warm- 
hearted and impressionable.” 

There was a lull in the conversation. Across the bare 
fields came the distant roar of the sea. They were still 
nearly half a mile from home, and a great longing came 
upon Mona to tell him about her medical studies. Why 
had she been such an idiot as to make that promise; and, 
having made it, why had she never asked her cousin to re- 
lease her from it ? She drew a long breath. 

“ My dear,” said Rachel’s voice behind them, “ Mr. 
Stuart wants to have a little conversation with you. Well, 
doctor, I hope Mrs. Hamilton is not worse, that you are 
here just now? ” 

Mr. Stuart’s wrongs were avenged. 

For one moment Dudley thought of protesting, but the 
exchange of partners was already effected, and he was 
forced to submit. 

“ Our conversation was left unfinished this morning, 
Miss Maclean,” said the minister. 

“Was it? I thought we had discussed the subject in 
all its bearings. You are to be congratulated on the sub- 
stitute you found.” 

“ Am I not? ” he answered warmly. “ It was all by acci- 
dent, too, that I met the doctor, and he was very unwilling 
to come. He had just run down for one day to settle a 
little business matter for his aunt ; but I put him near the 
end of the programme, so that he might not have to leave 
the house till near Mrs. Hamilton’s bedtime.” 


228 


MONA MACLEAN. 


For one day ! For one day ! 

The minister sighed. Miss Simpson had left him no 
choice about “ speaking to ” her cousin ; but he did not feel 
equal to an encounter to-night ; and certainly he could 
scarcely have found Mona in a less approachable mood. 

“You are not a Baptist, Miss Maclean?’’ 

“ No.” 

“ Have you studied the subject at all ? ” 

“ The Gospels are not altogether unfamiliar ground to 
me,” and her tone was much less aggressive than her 
words. 

“ And to what conclusion do they bring you ? ” 

“ I think there is a great deal to be said in favour of the 
Baptist view ; but, Mr. Stuart, it all seems to me a matter 
of so little importance. Surely it is the existence, not the 
profession, of faith that redeems the world ; and the pre- 
cise mode of profession is of less importance still.” 

“Do you realise what you are saying?” Mr. Stuart 
began to forget his fatigue. “ God has declared that one 
‘ mode of profession,’ as you call it, is in accordance with 
His will, but you pay no heed, because your finite reason 
tells you that it is of so little importance.” 

“ It is God who is responsible for my finite reason, not 
I,” said Mona ; and then the thought of where this con- 
versation must lead, and the uselessness of it, overwhelmed 
her. 

Her voice softened. “ Mr. Stuart,” she said, “ it is very 
kind of you to care what I think and believe — to-night, too, 
of all times, when you must be so tired after that ‘ func- 
tion.’ I believe it is a help to some people to talk, but I 
don’t think it is even right for me — at least at present. 
When I begin to formulate things, I seem to lose the sub- 
stance in the shadow ; I get interested in the argument for 
the argument’s sake. Believe me, I am not living a thought- 
less life.” 

Mr. Stuart was impressed by her earnestness in spite of 
himself. “ But, my dear young lady, is it wise, is it safe, 
to leave things so vague, to have nothing definite to lean 
upon ? ” 

“ I think so ; if one tries to do right.” 

“ It is all very well while you are young, and life seems 
long ; but trouble will come, and sickness, and death — ” 


ST RADIY ARIU S. 


229 


Rachel and Dudley had reached the gate of Carlton 
Lodge, and were waiting for the other two. But Mr. 
Stuart did not think it necessary to break off, or even to 
lower his voice. 

“ — and when the hour of your need comes, and you can 
no longer grapple with great thoughts, will you not long 
for a definite word, a text — ? ” 

Dudley’s face was a picture. Mona underwent a quick 
revulsion of feeling. How dared any one speak to her 
publicly like that! She answered lightly, however, too 
lightly— 

“ ‘ Derm, was man schwarz auf weiss besitzt, 

Kann man getrost nach Hause tragen ’ ” ! 

Of course she knew that Dr. Dudley alone would under- 
stand, and of course Dudley keenly appreciated the apt 
quotation. 

“ Hullo, Stuart ! ” he said, “ you seem to be figuring in a 
new and alarming role. I am half afraid to go in with you. 
I wish you could come and join in our discussion, Miss 
Maclean. ‘Nineteenth Century Heretics’ is our topic. 
Stuart takes the liberal side, I the conservative.” 

“ Do you think it expedient,” said the minister reproach- 
fully, as the two men crunched the gravel of the carriage- 
drive beneath their feet, “ to talk in that flippant way to 
women on deep subjects ? ” 

“ Oh, Miss Maclean is all right ! She could knock you 
and me into a cocked-hat any day.” 

And he believed what he said — at least so far as the 
minister was concerned. 

“ She really is very intelligent,” admitted Mr. Stuart. 
“ I quite miss her face when she is not at church on Sun- 
day morning ; but you know she does put herself forward a 
little. What made her go out after that fainting girl, when 
so many older women were present ? Oh, I forgot, you had 
not arrived — ” , 

“ It was well for the fainting girl that she did, inter- 
rupted Dudley calmly. “ When I was going to the vestry 
some one rushed frantically against me, and told me a 
woman had fainted. I arrived on the scene a moment after 
Miss Maclean, but fortunately she did not see me. By 
Jingo, Stuart, that girl can rise to an occasion ! If ever 


230 


MONA MACLEAN. 


your chapel is crowded, and takes fire, you may pray that 
Miss Maclean may be one of the congregation.” 

It gave him a curious pleasure to talk like this, but he 
would not have trusted himself to say so much, had it not 
been for the friendly darkness, and the noise of the gravel 
beneath their feet. 

Mr. Stuart suspected nothing. Dr. Dudley and Rachel 
Simpson’s cousin ! People would have been very slow to 
link their names. 

“ Yes, she is very intelligent,” he repeated. “ I must try 
to find time to have some more talks with her.” 

“ I wish you joy of them ! ” thought Dudley. “ I should 
like to know how you tackle a case like that, Stuart,” he 
said. “ Tell me what you said to her, and what she said to 
you.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

CHUMS. 

Action and reaction are equal and opposite. 

Dudley was back in his den in London. For the first 
day after his return, he had thought of nothing but Mona; 
her face had come between him and everything he did. 
Now it was bending, grave and motherly, over the fainting 
girl, now it was sparkling with mischief at the quotation 
from Faust , now it vibrated to the words of Stradivarius , 
and now— oftenest of all— it looked up at him in the dim 
lamplight, with that inquiring, inexplicable smile, half 
friendly, half defiant. 

And the evening and the morning were the first day. 

But now the second day had come, and Dudley was 
thinking— of Rachel Simpson. 

He pushed aside his books, and tramped up and down 
the room. How came she there, his exquisite fern, in that 
hideous dungeon? And was she indeed so fair? Removed 
from those surroundings, would she begin for the first time 
to show the taint she had acquired? In the drawing-room, 
at the dinner-table, in a solitude a deux , what if one should 
see in her a suggestion of— Rachel Simpson ? 


CHUMS. 


231 


And then Mona’s face came back once more, pure, high- 
souled, virgin ; without desire or thought for love and mar- 
riage. There was not the faintest ruby streak on the bud, 
and yet, and yet — what if he were the man to call it foHh? 
Why had she refused his arm ? It would have been pleas- 
ant to feel the touch of that strong, self-reliant little hand. 
It would be pleasant to feel it now — 

There was a knock at the door, and a fair-haired, inerry- 
eyed young man came in. 

“ Hullo, Melville ! ” said Dudley. “ Off duty ? ” 

“Ay; Johnston and I have swopped nights this week.” 

“ Anything special on at the hospital ? ” 

“No, nothing since I saw you. That Viking is not 
going to pull through, after all.” 

“ You don’t mean it ! ” 

“ Fact. I believe that bed is unlucky. This is the third 
case that has died in it. All pneumonia, too.” 

“ I believe pneumonia cases ought to be isolated.” 

“ I know you have a strong theory to that effect. I did 
an external strabismus to-day.” 

“ Successful?” 

“ I think so. I kept my hair on. By the way, you re- 
member that duffer Lawson?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He has hooked an heiress — older than himself, but not 
so bad-looking. He will have a practice in no time now. 
I met him bowling along in his carriage, and there was I 
trudging through the mud ! It’s the irony of fate, upon 
my soul ! ” 

“ True,” said Dudley, “ but you know, when we have all 
the intellect, and all the heart, and all the culture, we don’t 
need to grudge him his carriage.” 

“ I’ll shy something at you, Ralph ! And now I want 
your news. How is the way ? ” 

“ Thorny.” 

“ And the prospect of the anatomy medal ? ” 

“ Dim. But what are medals to an ‘ aged, aged man ’ 
like me?” 

“ You are hipped to-night. What’s up ? ” 

Dudley did not reply at once. He was intensely reserved, 
as a rule, about his private affairs, but a curious impulse 
was upon him now to contradict his own character. 


232 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ You and I have been chums for twenty years, more or 
less, Jack,” he said irrelevantly. 

“ True, 0 king ! Well ? ” 

“ I want to ask your advice on an abstract case.” 

“Do you ? Fire away ! I am a dab at medical eti- 
quette.” Dudley had been paying a few professional visits 
for a friend. 

“ It is not a question of medical etiquette,” he said testi- 
ly. “ Suppose,” he drew a long breath — “ suppose you knew 
a young girl — ” 

“ Ah ! My dear fellow, I never do know a young girl ! 
It is the greatest mistake in the world.” 

“ Suppose,” went on Dudley, unheeding, “ that physic- 
ally, mentally, and morally, she was about as near perfection 
as a human being can be.” 

“Oh, of course ! ” 

“ I don’t ask your opinion as to the probability of it. I 
don’t say I know such a person. Man alive ! can’t you sup- 
pose an abstract case ? ” 

“ It is a large order, but I am doing my level best.” 

“ Suppose that, so far as she was concerned, it was simply 
all over with you.” 

“ Oh, that is easy enough. Well? ” 

“ Would you marry her, if — ” 

“ Alack, it had to come ! Yes. If — ” 

“ If she was a — a tremendous contrast to her people ? ” 

“ Oh, that is it, is it ? ” Melville sprang to his feet, and 
spoke very emphatically. “ No, my dear fellow, upon my 
soul, I would not ! They grow into their heredity with all 
the certainty of fate. I would rather marry a gauche and 
unattractive girl because her mother was charming.” 

This was rather beside the point, but it depressed Dud- 
ley, and he sighed. 

“ But suppose — one has either to rave or make use of 
conventional expressions — suppose she was infinitely bright, 
and attractive, and womanly ? ” 

“ Oh, they are all that, you know.” 

“ If you knew her — ” 

“ Oh, of course. That goes without saying. Now we 
come back to the point we started from. As I told you be- 
fore, I never do know them, and it keeps me out of a world 
of mischief.” 


CHUMS. 


233 

Melville seated himself by the fire, and buried his hands 
in his curly hair. 

“ Ralph, while we are at it,” he said, “ I want to give 
you a word of advice. Verb, sap., you know. If any man 
knows you, I am that man. As you were remarking, you 
have lain on my dissecting-board for twenty years.” 

“I wish you had done me under water. You would 
have made a neater thing of it.” 

“So I would, old fellow, but you were too big. The 
difficulty was to get you into my mental laboratory at all.” 

Dudley bowed. 

“ Don’t bow. It was well earned. You fished for it un- 
common neatly. But you know, Ralph, I am serious now. 
Let me say it for once — you are awfully fastidious, awfully 
sensitive, awfully over-cultured. Few women could please 
you. It matters little whether you marry a good woman or 
bad, — I don’t know that there is much difference between 
them myself ; the saints and the sinners get jumbled some- 
how, — but you must marry a woman of the world. Gretch- 
en would be awfully irresistible, I know — for a month ; she 
would not wear. Marry a woman full of surprises, a woman 
who does not take all her colour from you, a woman who 
can keep you dangling, as it were.” 

“ It sounds restful.” 

Melville laughed. “ Restful or not, that’s the woman 
for you, Ralph. You are not equal to an hour at the Pavil- 
ion, I suppose ? Well, ta-ta.” 

Dudley sat in silence till the echo of his friend’s steps 
on the pavement had died away. Then he rose and tramped 
up and down the room again. 

“ After all, Miss Simpson is only her cousin,” he said. “ If 
I routed about I might find some rather shady cousins myself. 
But then I don’t live with them. If her parents were a de- 
cided cut above that, how comes she there? And being 
there, how can she have escaped contamination ? I wonder 
what Miss Simpson’s dinner-table is like ? Ugh ! Is it as 
squalid as the shop? And why is the shop so squalid? 
Does Miss Simpson allow no interference in her domain ? 
And yet I cannot conceive of Miss Maclean being out of 
place at a duchess’s table.” 

He dropped into a chair, clasped his hands behind his 
head, and spoke aloud almost indignantly in his perplexity. 


234 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ How can a provincial shop-girl be a woman of the 
world? And yet, upon my soul, Miss Maclean seems to 
me to come nearer Melville’s description than any woman 
I ever knew. Alack-a-day, I must be besotted, indeed ! 
Oh, damn that examination ! ” 

Ralph returned to his books, however, and tried hard to 
shut out all further thoughts of Mona that night. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

CARBOLIC ! 

“ Hullo, Jones, going home? ” 

“I am going to lunch; I may be back in the after- 
noon.” 

“ Please yourself, my dear fellow, but if you don’t finish 
that axilla to-day, I shall be under the painful necessity of 
reflecting the pectorals, and proceeding with the thorax, at 
9 A. M. to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, I say, Dudley, that is too bad.” 

“ I fail to see it. You have had one day too long as 
it is.” 

“ But you know I did cut my finger.” 

“ H’m. I have not just the profoundest faith in that 
cut finger. You know it did happen on the day of the 
football-match.” 

The boy laughed. “ And Collett will never manage that 
sole of the foot without you,” he said. 

“ Collett must.” Dudley smiled up at the eager face 
that was bending over his dissection. “ I only undertook 
to find the cutaneous branch of the internal plantar,” and 
he lifted the nerve affectionately on the handle of his scal- 
pel. “ Come, Jones, fire away. Ge n'est pas la mer a boire. 
Half an hour will do it.” 

“ Oh, I say ! It would take me four hours. You know, 
Dudley, there is such a lot of reading on the axilla. I am 
all in a muddle as it is. I’ll sit up half the night reading 
it, if you will give me another day.” 


CARBOLIC ! 


235 


“Very sorry, old man. Ars Tonga. I must get on with 
my thorax. It will do you far more good to read in the 
dissecting-room. Preconceived ideas are a mistake. Get a 
good lunch, and come back. That’s your scalpel, I think, 
Collett.” 

“ Oh, bother ! I only wish I had ideas of any kind ! I 
wish to goodness somebody would demonstrate the whole 
thing to me, and finish the dissection as he goes along ! ” 

“ I will do that with pleasure, if you like, to-morrow. 
The gain will be mine — and perhaps it will be the best 
thing you can do now. But don't play that little game too 
often, if you mean to be an anatomist.” 

“ I don’t,” cried the boy, vehemently. “ I wish to 
heaven I need never see this filthy old hole again ! ” 

Dudley glanced round the fine airy room, as he stood 
with his hands under the tap. 

“ I know that feeling well,” he said. 

“ You, Dudley ! Why, somebody said the other day 
that the very dust of the dissecting-room was dear to you.” 

“ So it is, I think,” said Ralph, smiling. “ But it was 
very different in the days w r hen I stroked the nettle m the 
gingerly fashion you are doing now.” 

“ You mean that you think I should like it better if I 
really tucked into it,” said the boy, ruefully. 

“ I don’t think at all ; I know. 9 A. m. to-morrow sharp, 
then.” 

Dudley stepped out briskly into the raw damp air. The 
mud was thick underfoot, and the whole aspect of the world 
was depressing to the hard-worked student. One by one 
the familiar furrows took possession of his brow, and his 
step slackened gradually, till it kept pace with the dead 
march of his thoughts. He was within a stone’s throw of 
his rooms, when a dashing mail-phaeton came up behind 
him. A good horse was always a source of pleasure to him, 
and he noted, point by point, the beauties of the two fine 
bays, which, bespattered with foam, were chafing angrily 
at the delay caused by some block in the street. Suddenly 
Ralph bethought himself of Melville’s story about the “ irony 
of fate ” ; and he glanced with amused curiosity at the oc- 
cupant of the carriage. 

There was no irony here. The reins lay firmly but easily 
in the hands of a man who was well in keeping with the 


236 


MONA MACLEAN. 


horses, — fine-looking, of military bearing, with ruddy face, 
and curly white hair. He, too, seemed annoyed at the 
block, for there was a heavy frown on his brow. 

At last the offending cart turned down a side-street, and 
the bays dashed on. Immediately in front of them was a 
swift heavy dray, and behind it, as is the fashion among 
gamins , sublimely regardless of all the dangers of his posi- 
tion, hung a very small boy. The dray stopped for a mo- 
ment, then suddenly lumbered on, and before either Dudley 
or the driver of the phaeton had noticed the child, he had 
fallen from his precarious *perch, and lay under the hoofs of 
the bays. 

With one tremendous pull the phaeton was brought to 
a standstill, while Dudley and the groom rushed forward to 
extricate the child. 

“ I think he is more frightened than hurt,” said Ralph, 
“ but my rooms are close at hand. If you like, I will take 
him in and examine him carefully. * I am a doctor.” 

“ Upon my soul, I am very much obliged to you ! I am 
leaving town foi the Riviera to-night, and it would be con- 
foundedly awkward to be detained by a business of this 
kind. Step up, will you ? Charles wiil hand up the child 
after you are in.” 

The boy lay half stunned, drawing little sobbing breaths. 
When they reached the house, Dudley handed the latch-key 
to his companion, and, raising the boy in his strong arms, 
he carried him up the steps. 

“ Bless me, you are as good as a woman ! ” said the man 
of the world, in amused admiration, as he opened the door. 
“ It was uncommonly lucky for me that you happened to 
be passing.” 

Dudley showed his new acquaintance into his snuggery, 
while he examined the boy. The snuggery was a room 
worth seeing. There was nothing showy or striking about 
it, but every picture, every book, every bit of pottery, had 
been lovingly and carefully chosen, and the tout ensemble 
spoke well for the owner of the room. 

“ A man of culture clearly,” said the visitor, after mak- 
ing a leisurely survey ; “ and what a life for him, by Gad ! 
—examining dirty little gamins ! He can’t be poor. What 
the deuce does he do it for ? ” 

“ He is all right,” said Dudley emphatically, re-entering 


CARBOLIC ! 


237 


the room. “ He has been much interested in mj manikin, 
and at the present moment is tucking vigorously into bread- 
and-marmalade. I have assured him that ninety-nine 
drivers out of a hundred would have gone right over him. 
You certainly are to be congratulated on the way you pulled 
those horses up.” 

“Do you think so ? I am very glad to hear it. Gad ! 
I thought myself it was all over with the little chap. The 
fact is — it is a fine state of affairs if I can’t manage a horse 
at my time of life ; but I confess my thoughts were pretty 
far afield at the moment. It is most annoying. I have 
taken my berth on the Club Train for this afternoon, and I 
find I shall have to go without seeing my niece. I wrote to 
make an appointment, but it seems she has left her former 
rooms. By the way, you are a doctor. Do you happen to 
know any of the lady medical students ? ” 

Dudley shook his head. “ I am sorry I have not that 
honour,” he said. 

His visitor laughed harshly. 

“ You don’t believe in all that, eh? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t say that. I am very far from being con- 
servative on the subject of women’s work. I am inclined 
on the whole to think that women have souls, and, that 
being so, and the age of brute force being past, it is to my 
mind a natural corollary that they should choose their 
own work.” 

“ I don’t see that at all, sir. I don’t see that at all,” 
said the elderly gentleman, throwing himself into a chair, 
and talking very warmly. “ Souls ! What have souls got 
to do with it, I should like to know ? Can they do it with- 
out becoming blunted ? That is the question.” 

“ I confess I think it is a strange life for a woman to 
choose, but I know one or two women — one certainly — who 
would make far better doctors than I ever shall.” 

“ Oh, they are a necessity ! Mind, sir, I believe women- 
doctors are a necessity ; so it is a mercy they want to do it ; 
but why the devil should my niece take it up ? She is not 
the sort of woman you mean at all. To think that a fine- 
looking, gentle, gifted girl, who might marry any man she 
liked, and move in any society she choose, should spend her 
days in an atmosphere of — what is the smell in this room, 
sir?” 


238 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Dudley laughed. “ Carbolic, I suppose,” he said. “ I 
use a good deal of it.” 

“Carbolic! Well, think of a beautiful woman finding 
it necessary to live in an atmosphere of — carbolic ! ” 

Dudley laughed again, his visitor’s voice was so ex- 
pressive. 

“ There are minor drawbacks, of course,” he said. “ But 
I strongly agree with you, that there is a part of our work 
which ought to be in the hands of women ; and I, for one, 
will gladly hand it over to them.” 

“ I believe you ! Oh, when all is said, it’s grimy work, 
doctoring, grimy work ! ” 

“ You know, of course, that I join issue with you there.” 

“ You don’t find it so i ” 

“ God forbid ! ” 

“ Tell me,” said the stranger eagerly, running his eye 
from Dudley’s cultured face to his long, nervous hands, 

‘ you ought to know — given a woman, pure, and good, and 
strong, could she go through it all unharmed ? ” 

“ Pure, and good, and strong,” repeated Dudley reflect- 
ively. “ Given a woman like that, you may safely send her 
through hell itself. I think the fundamental mistake of 
our civilisation has been educating women as if they were 
all run in one mould. She will get her eyes opened, of 
course, if she studies Medicine, but some women never attain 
the possibilities of their nature in the shadow of convent 
walls. Frankly, I have no great fancy for artificially reared 
purity.” 

“ Artificially reared ! ” exclaimed the other. “ My dear 
sir, there are a few intermediate stages between the hot- 
house and the dunghill ! If it were only art, or literature, 
or politics, or even science, but anatomy — the dissecting- * 
room ! ” 

“Well,” said Dudley rather indignantly, his views de- 
veloping as he spoke, “ even anatomy, like most things, is as 
you make it. Many men take possession of a ‘ little city of 
sewers,* but I should think a pure and good woman might 
chance to find herself in the temple of the Holy Ghost.” 

His visitor was somewhat startled by this forcible lan- 
guage, and he did not answer for a moment. He seemed to 
be attentively studying the pattern of the carpet. Presently 
he looked full at Dudley, and spoke somewhat sharply. 


PALM-TREES AND PINES. 


239 


“ Knowing all you do, you think that possible ? ” 

“ Knowing all I do, I think that more than possible.” 

The man of the world sat for some time in silence, tap- 
ping his boot witli a ruler he had taken from the writing- 
table. 

“ I’ll tell you what I can do for you,” said Dudley sud- 
denly. “ I can give you the address of the Women’s Medi- 
cal School. Your niece is probably there.” 

“ Oh Lord, no ! I am a brave man, but I am not equal 
to that. I would rather face a tiger in the jungle any day. 
Well, sir, I am sure I am infinitely obliged to you. I wish 
I could ask you to dine at my club, but I hope I shall see 
you when I am next in London. That is my card. Where’s 
the little chap ? Look here, my man ! There is a Christmas- 
box for you, but if you ever get under my horses’ feet again, 
I will drive right on; do you hear?” 

He shook hands cordially with Dudley, slipped a couple 
of guineas into his hand, and in another minute the impa- 
tient bays were dashing down the street. 

“ Sir Douglas Munro,” said Dudley, examining the 
card. “ A magnificent specimen of the fine old Anglo- 
Indian type. I should like to see this wonderful niece of 
his!” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

PALM-TREES AND PINES. 

A world of palm-trees and pines, of aloes and eucalyp- 
tus, of luxuriant hedges all nodding and laughing with gay 
red roses, of white villas gleaming out from a misty back- 
ground of olives, of cloudless sky looking down on the deep 
blue sea — a vivid sunshiny world, and in the midst of it all, 
Miss Lucy, to all appearance as gay and as light-hearted as 
if she had never dissected the pterygo-maxillary region, nor 
pored over the pages of Q.uain. 

The band was playing waltzes in the garden below, and 
Lucy, as she dressed, "was dancing and swaying to and fro, 
like the roses in the wind. 


240 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Entrez ! ” she cried, without moderating her steps, as 
she heard a knock at the door. 

It was Evelyn, fair, tall, and somewhat severe. 

“ You are not very like a medical student,” she said 
gravely. 

“ I should take that for an unmixed compliment, if I 
did not know what it meant.” 

“ What does it mean ? ” 

“ That I am not in the least like Mona.” 

“ Well, you are not, you know.” 

“ True, ma belle. It was you who fitted on the lion’s 
skin, not I. But did you come into my room just to tell 
me that ? ” 

“ I came to say that if you can be ready in ten minutes, 
Father will take us all to Monte Carlo.” 

“ Ten minutes ! Oh, Evelyn, and you have wasted one ! 
What are you going to wear ? ” 

“ This, of course. What should I wear ? ” 

Lucy selected a gown from her wardrobe. “ But is not 
Sir Douglas still awfully tired with the journey ? ” she asked, 
looking over her shoulder to get a back view of her pretty 
skirt in the pier-glass. 

“ He has rested more or less for two days, and he is 
anxious to seethe Monteiths before they go on to Florence.” 

She did not add, “ I told him you were pining to see 
Monte Carlo before you go home.” 

“ The Monteiths,” repeated Lucy involuntarily. And as 
she heard the name on her own lips, the healthy flush on 
her cheek deepened almost imperceptibly. 

Evelyn seated herself on a hat-box. 

“ I don’t believe you will ever be a doctor,” she remarked 
calmly. 

“ What do you bet ? ” Lucy did not look up from the 
arduous task of fastening her bodice. 

“ I don’t bet, but if you ever are, I’ll — consult you ! ” 

And having solemnly discharged this Parthian dart, she 
left the room. 

In truth, the two girls were excellent friends, although 
they were continually sparring. Evelyn considered Lucy 
an absolute fraud in the capacity of “ learned woman ” but 
she did not on that account find the light-hearted medical 
student any the less desirable as a companion. As to com- 


PALM-TREES AND PINES. 


241 


paring her with Mona, Evelyn would have laughed at the 
bare idea ; and loyal little Lucy would have been the first 
to join in the laugh : she had never allowed any one even 
to suspect that she had passed an examination in which 
Mona had failed. Mona was the centre of the system in 
which she was a satellite ; she was bitterly jealous of all the 
other satellites in their relation to the centre, but who 
would be jealous of the sun ? 

Lady Munro had taken a great fancy to her visitor. She 
would not have owned to the heresy for the world, but she 
certainly was much more at her ease in Lucy’s society than 
she ever had been in Mona’s, and how Sir Douglas could 
find his niece more piquante than Lucy Reynolds, she could 
not even imagine. She knew exactly where she had Lucy, 
but even when Mona agreed with her most warmly, she had 
an uncomfortable feeling that a glance into her niece’s mind 
might prove a little startling. She met Lucy on common 
ground, but Mona seemed to be on a different plane, and 
Lady Munro found it etxremely difficult to tell when that 
plane was above, and when below, her own. 

She would have been not a little surprised, and her opin- 
ion of the relative attractions of the two friends might have 
been somewhat altered, had any one told her that Mona ad- 
mired and idealised her much more even than Lucy did. 
If any one of us were unfortunate enough to receive the 
“ giftie ” of which the poet has sung, it is probable that the 
principal result of such insight would be a complete read- 
justment of our friendships. 

But now Sir Douglas had appeared upon the scene, and 
of course Lucy was much more anxious to “ succeed ” with 
him than with either of the others. She had seen very little 
of him as yet, and she had done her best, but so far the re- 
sult had been somewhat disappointing. It was almost a 
principle with Sir Douglas never to pay much attention to 
a pretty young girl. He had seen so many of them in his 
day, and they were all so much alike. Even this saucy little 
JEsculapia militans was no exception. As the scientist 
traces an organism through “ an alternation of generations,” 
and learns by close observation that two or three names have 
been given to one and the same being, so Sir Douglas fancied 
he saw in Lucy Reynolds only an old and familiar type in a 
new stage of its life-history. 

16 


242 


MONA MACLEAN. 


He had gone through much trouble and perplexity on 
the subject of Mona’s life-work ; and Dudley’s somewhat 
fanciful words had for the first time given expression to a 
vague idea that had floated formless in his own mind ever 
since he first met his niece at Gloucester Place. It would 
be ridiculous to apply such an explanation to Lucy’s choice, 
but Sir Douglas had no intention of opening up the problem 
afresh. He took for granted that Lucy had undertaken the 
work “ for the fun of the thing,” because it was novel, start- 
ling, outre ; and he confided to his wife that “that old Rey- 
nolds must be a chuckle-headed noodle in his dotage to allow 
such a piece of nonsense.” 

In a very short time after Evelyn’s summons to Lucy, 
the whole party were rattling down the hill to the station, 
in the crisp, cold, dewy morning air. Evelyn was calm and 
dignified as usual, but Lucy was wild with excitement. 
Everything was a luxury to her — to be with a man of the 
world like Sir Douglas, to travel in a luxurious first-class 
carriage, to see a little bit more of this wonderful world. 

They left Nice behind them, and then the scenery be- 
came gradually grander and more severe, till the train had 
to tunnel its way through the mighty battlements of rock 
that towered above the sea, and afforded a scanty nourish- 
ment to the scattered pines, all tossed and bent and twisted 
by the wind in the enervating climate of the south. At last, 
jutting out above the water, at the foot of the rugged heights, 
as though it too, forsooth, had the rights of eternal nature, 
Monte Carlo came in view— gay, vulgar, beautiful, tawdry, 
irresistible Monte Carlo ! 

“ Is that really the Casino ? ” said Lucy, in an eager 
hushed voice. 

Sir Douglas laughed. Lucy’s enthusiasm pleased him 
in spite of himself. 

“ It is,” he said, “ but, if you have no objection, we’ll 
have something to eat before we visit it.” 

To him the Casino was a commonplace toy of yesterday; 
to Evelyn it w r as a shocking and beautiful place, that one 
ought to see for once ; to Lucy it was a temple of romance. 
No need to bid her speak softly as she entered the gorgeous, 
gloomy halls, with their silent eager groups. 

“Shall we see Gwendolen Harleth?” she whispered to 
Evelyn. 


PALM-TREES AND PINES. 


243 


On this occasion, however, Gwendolen Harleth was con- 
spicuous by her absence. There were a number of women 
at the roulette- tables who looked like commonplace, hard- 
working governesses ; there were be-rouged and be-jewelled 
ladies of the demi-monde ; there were wicked, wrinkled old 
harpies who always seemed to win ; and there were one or 
two ordinary blooming young girls ; but there was no Gwen- 
dolen Harleth. For a moment Lucy was almost disappoint- 
ed. It all looked so like a game with counters, and no one 
seemed to care so very much where the wheel stopped : sure- 
ly the tragedy of this place had been a little overdrawn. 

At that instant her eyes fell on an English boy, whose 
fresh honest face was thrown into deep anxious furrows, and 
who kept glancing eagerly round, as if to make sure that no 
one noticed his misery. His eye met Lucy’s, and with a 
great effort he tried to smooth his face into a look of easy 
assurance. He was not playing, but he went on half un- 
consciously, jotting down the winning numbers on a slip of 
paper. 

“ Messieurs , faites vos jeux ” 

The boy opened a large lean pocket-book, and drew out 
his last five-franc piece. 

“ Le jeu est fait.” 

With sudden resolution he laid it on the table, and 
pushed it into place. 

“ Rien ne va plus.” 

“ Vingt-sept.” 

And the poor little five-franc piece was swept into the 
bank. 

The boy smiled airily, and returned the empty book to 
> his pocket. 

Lucy looked at her companions, but none of them had 
noticed the little tragedy. Sir Douglas led the way to 
another table, and finally he handed a five-franc piece to 
j each of the girls. To his mind it was a part of the pro- 
gramme that they should be able to say they had tried their 
’ luck. 

Lucy hesitated, strongly tempted. Dim visions floated 
before her mind of making “ pounds and pounds,” and 
handing them over to that poor boy. Then she shook her 
head. 

“ My father would not like it,” she whispered. 


244 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Sir Douglas shrugged his shoulders. Verily, there was 
no accounting for taste. How a man could allow his daughter 
to spend years in the dissecting-room, and in the surgical 
wards of a hospital, — subject her, in fact, to the necessity of 
spending her life in an atmosphere of carbolic, — and object 
to her laying a big silver counter on a green cloth, just for 
once, was more than he could divine. 

Evelyn hesitated also. But it would be such fun to say 
she had done it. She took the coin and laid it on the table. 
“ Where would you put it ? ” she whispered rather helplessly 
to Lucy. 

Lucy knew nothing of the game, but she had been watch- 
ing its progress attentively, and her eye had been trained to 
quick and close observation. Annoyed at Evelyn’s slowness, 
and without stopping to think, she took the cue and pushed 
the coin into place. It was just in time. In another in- 
stant Evelyn’s stake was doubled. 

“ There, that will do,” said Sir Douglas, as Evelyn seemed 
inclined to repeat the performance. “ I don’t want to see 
your cheeks like those of that lady opposite.” 

A gentleman stood aside to let them leave the table, and 
as they passed he held out his hand to Lucy. She did not 
take it at once, but looked up at Sir Douglas in pretty con- 
sternation. 

“ There ! ” she said. “ I knew it ! This is one of my 
father’s churchwardens.” 

Sir Douglas was much amused. “ Well,” he said, “ you 
have at least met on common ground ! ” 

Lucy attempted a feeble explanation of the situation in 
which she had been caught, and then hastily followed the 
others to the inner temples sacred to Rouge et Noir. Here, 
at least, there was tragedy enough even at the first glance. 
Lucy almost forgot the poor lad at the roulette- table, as she 
watched the piles of gold being raked hither and thither 
with such terrific speed. One consumptive-looking man, 
whose face scarcely promised a year of life, was staking 
wildly, and losing, losing, losing. At last the piles in front 
of him were all gone. After a moment’s hesitation they 
were followed by note after note from his pocket-book. 
Then these too came to an end, but still the relentless wheel 
went on with that swiftness that is like nothing else on 
earth. The man made no movement to leave the table. 


PALM-TREES AND PINES. 


245 


With yellow-white shaking hands he continued to note the 
results, and while all the rest were staking and winning and 
losing, he went on aimlessly, feverishly pricking some mean- 
ingless design on the ruled sheet before him. And all the 
time two young girls were gaining, gaining, gaining, and 
smiling to the men behind them as they raked in the piles 
of gold. 

“ Let us go,” said Lucy, quickly. “ I cannot bear 
this.” 

“ I do think we have had enough of it,” Lady Munro 
agreed. “ I am thirsty, Douglas ; let us have some coffee.” 

They strolled out into the bright sunshine. 

“Well,” said Sir Douglas, “a little disappointing, n'est- 
ce pas ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Lucy ; “ not at all. It is far more real 
than I thought. The only disappointing thing is that — ” 

“What?” 

She lifted her eyes with an expression of profound 
gravity. 

“ All the women trim their own hats.” 

“ Why, Lucy,” put in Evelyn, “ I saw some very nice 
hats.” 

“ I did not say none of them trimmed their hats well” 
said Lucy severely. “ I only said they all trimmed their 
own.” 

“ We are rather too early in the day for toilettes ,” said 
Sir Douglas. “ I confess one does not see many attractive 
women here; but there was a highly respectable British 
matron just opposite us at that last table.” 

“ Yes,” said Lucy indignantly. “ She was the worst of 
all ; sailing about in her comfortable British plumage, with 
that air of self-satisfied horror at the depth of Continental 
wickedness, and of fond pride in the bouncing flapper at 
her heels. She made me feel that it was worse to look on 
than to play.” 

“ Don’t distress yourself,” said Sir Douglas quietly ; 
“ you did play, you know. Ask the churchwarden.” 

“ I owe you five francs,” said Evelyn, “ or ten. Which 
is it? ” 

“ Don't ! ” said Lucy. “ It is no laughing matter for me, 
I can assure you. Many is the trick I have played on that 
man. Heigh-ho ! He has his revenge.” 


246 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Don’t be down-hearted. You had at least the satisfac- 
tion of winning.” 

But Lucy was in no humour for being teased, and, to 
change the subject, she began to tell the story of the dif- 
ferent tragedies she had witnessed. 

“ It is all nonsense, you know,” said Sir Douglas good- 
humouredly. “ That is the sort of stuff they put in the 
good books. People who are really being bitten don’t 
attract attention to themselves by overdone by-play.” 

Lucy did not reply, but she retained her own opinion. 
Overdone by-play, indeed ! As if she had eyes for nothing 
more subtle than overdone by-play ! 

“ In the meantime we will have our coffee,” said Sir 
Douglas, “ and then I will leave you at the concert, while I 
look up Monteith. I will come and fetch you at the end of 
the first part. Here, Maud, this table is disengaged.” 

The head-waiter came up immediately. Sir Douglas 
was one of those people who rarely have occasion to call a 
waiter. He gave the order, lighted a cigar very deliberately, 
and then turned abruptly to Lucy. 

“ Where is Mona ? ” he asked quietly. 

Lucy almost gasped for breath. 

“ She was in London when I saw her last,” she said, try- 
ing to gain time. 

“ At her old rooms ? ” 

“ No-o,” faltered Lucy. “ She was sharing my rooms 
then.” 

Then she gathered herself together. This would never 
do. Anything would be better than to suggest that there 
was a mystery in the matter. 

“ You see,” she said, “ I have been away ever since the 
beginning of term, and I have not heard from Mona for 
some time. I know she has taken all the classes she re- 
quires for her next examination, and reading can be done in 
one place as well as in another.” 

“ Then why the — why could not she come to us and do 
it?” 

Lucy laughed. She began to hope that the storm was 
passing over. 

“ I suppose Mona would reply,” she said, “ that Cannes, 
like Cambridge, is an excellent place to play in.” 

“ Then you don’t know her address ? ” 


PALM-TREES AND PINES. 


247 


“ I don’t know it positively. I think it is quite likely 
that she is with that cousin of hers in the north. She said 
once that she could do far more work in that bracing air.” 

“So she has gone there to prepare for this examina- 
tion?” 

“ I believe she is working very hard.” 

“ And when does the examination take place ? ” 

“ I have not heard her say when she means to go up. 
You see, Sir Douglas, my plans are Mona’s, but Mona’s 
plans are her own. She is not one to rush through her 
course anyhow, for the sake of getting on the register, like 
— me for instance.” 

“ I can believe that. It seems Mona told her aunt that 
she was leaving her old rooms, and that it would be well to 
address letters for the present to the care of her man of 
business. Is that what you do ? ” 

“ I have not written for a long time. I shall send my 
next to her man of business.” 

“And won’t I just give Mona a vivid account of how I 
came to do it ! ” she added mentally. 

“ Have you seen this lady — Mona’s cousin ? I don’t 
know anything about her.” 

“ Ho, I have not. I believe she is very quiet, and elderly, 
and respectable, — and dull ; the sort of person in whose 
house one can get through a lot of work.” 

“Humph,” growled Sir Douglas. “A nice life for a 
girl like Mona ! ” 

“ I am sure I wish she were here ! ” 

Sir Douglas looked at her. “ Some of us,” he said 
quietly, “ wish that every day of our lives. I called the 
other day to take her for a drive in the Park, but found she 
had left her old rooms.” And then he told the story of his 
little misadventure of a few days before. 

“ Oh,” said Lucy, “ what a terrible pity ! Mona loves 
driving in the Park. Do go for her again some day when 
she is working in London. You have no idea what a treat 
a drive in the Park is to people who have been poring over 
their bones, and their books, and their test-tubes.” 

“ Well, what in the name of all that is incomprehensible 
does she do it for ? She might drive in the Park every day 
if she chose.” 

“ But then,” said Lucy, “ she would not be Mona.” 


248 


MONA MACLEAN. 


The muscles of his face relaxed, and then contracted 
again. 

“ Even admitting,” he said, “ that all is well just now, 
how will it be ten years hence ? ” 

“ Ten years hence,” said Evelyn, “ Mona will have mar- 
ried a clever young doctor. Lucy says the students have 
several times married the lecturers.” 

Sir Douglas frowned. “ I should just like to see,” he 
flashed out angrily, “ the young doctor who would presume to 
come and ask me for Mona ! I hate the whole trade. Why, 
that young fellow I told you about, who came to my rescue, 
was infinitely superior to most of them — cultured, and 
travelled, and that sort of thing — but, bless my soul, he 
was not a man of the world ! I would sooner see Mona in 
a convent than give her to a whipper-snapper like that ! ” 

“ Evelyn is wrong,” said Lucy. “ Mona will not marry. 
She never thinks of that sort of thing. Ten years hence 
she will be a little bit matronly, by reason of all the girls 
and women she will have mothered. Her face will be rather 
worn perhaps, but in my eyes at least she will be beautiful.” 

“ And in yours, Douglas,” said Lady Munro, “ she will 
still be the bright young girl that she is to-day.” 

She laughed softly as she spoke, but the laugh was a 
rather half-hearted one. She had learnt the difference be- 
tween the fruit that is in a man’s hand, and the fruit that 
is just out of reach. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

WEEPING AND LAUGHTER. 

Sir Douglas had gone to see his friend, but it was still 
too early for the concert, so Lady Munro and the girls 
strolled round to the terrace overlooking the sea. 

“ How lovely, how lovely ! ” said Lucy. “ I wonder if 
there is any view in all the world like this ? ” 

“ We must find those two statues by Sara Bernhardt and 
Gustave Dore,” said Evelyn, looking up from her Baedeker. 
“ One of them represents—” 


WEEPING AND LAUGHTER. 


249 


“ Oh, bother the statues ! ” cried Lucy. “ I want to feel 
things to-day, not to look at them.” Her voice changed 
suddenly. “ Lady Munro,” she said very softly, “ that is 
my boy leaning on the stone balustrade. Now, did I exag- 
gerate ? Look at him ! ” 

Lady Munro walked on for a moment or two, and then 
glanced at the lad incidentally ; but the glance extended 
itself with impunity into a very deliberate study. The boy’s 
face was flushed, and he was muttering to himself incoher- 
ently as he gazed in front of him with unseeing eyes. 

“ He looks as if he was going mad,” remarked Evelyn 
frankly. 

“ He looks a great deal more like an acute maniac than 
most acute maniacs do,” said Lucy, with a proud recollec- 
tion of a few visits to an asylum. “ Oh, Lady Munro, do, 
do go and speak to him ! You would do it so beautifully.” 

Lady Munro hesitated. She never went out of her way 
to do good, but this boy seemed to have come into her way ; 
and her action was none the less beautiful, because it was 
dictated, not by principle at all, but by sheer motherly im- 
pulse. 

She left the girls some distance off, and rustled softly up 
to where he stood. 

“ Pardon , monsieur ,” she said lightly, “ can you tell me 
where the statue by Gustave Dore is ? ” 

He started and looked up. One did not often see a gra- 
cious woman like this at Monte Carlo. 

“ I beg your pardon,’ he said, making a desperate effort 
to collect his thoughts. Distraught as was his air, his ac- 
cent and manner were cultured and refined. Lady Munro’s 
interest in him increased. 

“ Do you know where there is a statue by Gustave 
Dore ? ” 

He shook his head. “ I am sorry I don’t,” he said, and 
he turned away his face. 

But Lady Munro did not mean the conversation to end 
thus. “ This is a charming view, is it not ? ” she said. 

“ Ye-e-s,” he said, “ oh, very charming,” 

“ I think I saw you at one of the tables in the Casino. 
I hope you were successful ? ” 

He turned towards her like a stag at bay. There was 
anger and resentment in his face, but far more deeply 


250 


MONA MACLEAN. 


written than either of these was despair. It was such a 
boyish face, too, so open and honest. “ Don’t you see I 
can’t talk about nothings?” it seemed to say. “ You are 
very kind and very beautiful ; I am at your mercy ; but 
why do you torture me ? ” 

“ You are in trouble,” Lady Munro said, in her soft, 
irresistible voice. “ Perhaps it is not so bad after all. Tell 
me about it.” 

A woman more accustomed to missions of mercy would 
have calculated better the effect of her words. In another 
moment the tears were raining down the lad’s cheeks, and 
his voice was choked with sobs. Fortunately, the great 
terrace was almost entirely deserted. Lucy and Evelyn sat 
at some distance, apparently deep in the study of Baedeker, 
and in a far-off corner an old gentleman was reading his 
newspaper. 

The story came rather incoherently at last, but the 
thread was simple enough. 

The boy had an only sister, a very delicate girl, who had 
been ordered to spend the winter at San Remo. He had 
taken her there, had seen her safely installed, and — had met 
an acquaintance who had persuaded him to spend a night 
at Monte Carlo on the way home. From that point on, of 
course, the story needed no telling. But the practical up- 
shot of it was that the boy had in his purse, at that mo- 
ment, precisely sixty-five centimes in money, and a twenty- 
five-centime stamp ; he had nothing wherewith to pay the 
journey home, and he was some pounds in debt to his 
friend. 

Truly, all things are relative in life. While some men 
were forfeiting their thousands at the tables with compara- 
tive equanimity, this lad was wellnigh losing his reason for 
the sake of some fifteen pounds. 

“ What friends had he at home ? ” was of course Lady 
Munro’s first question. “ Had he a father — a mother ? ” 

His mother was dead, and his father — his father was 
very stern, and not at all rich. It had not been an easy 
matter for him to send his daughter to the Riviera. 

4 That is what makes it so dreadful,” said the lad. 44 1 
wish to heaven I had taken a return ticket ! But I wanted 
to go home by steamer from Marseilles. The fatal moment 
was when I encroached on my journey-money. After I had 


WEEPING AND LAUGHTER. 


251 


done that, of course I had to go on to replace it ; but the 
luck was dead against me. Oh, if I could only recall that 
first five francs ! If I could have foreseen this — but I 
meant — ” 

“ You meant to win, of course,” said Lady Munro, 
kindly. 

The boy laughed shamefacedly, in the midst of his misery. 

“ Well, I think my punishment equals my sin,” he said. 
“ I would gladly live on bread and water for months, if I 
could undo two days of my life. I keep thinking round 
and round in a circle, till I am nearly mad. I cannot write 
to my father, and yet what else can I do?” 

Lady Munro was silent for a few minutes when the lad 
had finished speaking. She was wondering what Sir Doug- 
las would say. When a married woman is called upon to 
help her fellows, she has much to think of besides her own 
generous impulses ; and in Lady Munro’s case it was well 
perhaps that this was so. She would empty her purse for 
the needy as readily as she would empty it for some jewel 
that took her fancy, sublimely regardless in the one case as 
in the other of the wants of the morrow. Ah, well ! it is 
a good thing for mankind that a perfect woman is not al- 
ways essential to the role of ministering angel ! 

“ I will try to help you,” she said at last, “ though I can- 
not absolutely promise. In the meantime here is a napoleon. 
That will take you to Cannes, and pay for a night’s lodging. 
Call on me to-morrow between ten and eleven.” She handed 
him her card. “ I think,” she added as an afterthought, 
“ you will promise not to enter the Casino again ? ” 

It was very characteristic of her to ask as a favour what 
she might have demanded as a condition. The boy blushed 
crimson as he took the napoleon. “ You are very kind,” he 
said, nervously. “ Thank you. I won’t so much as look at 
the Casino again.” 

“ Well, Miss Lucy, a pretty scrape you have got me 
into ! ” said Lady Munro, as she joined the girls. “ It will 
take fifteen pounds to set that boy on his feet again.” 

“ Tell us all about it,” said Lucy, eagerly. “ Who is he ? ” 

“ His name is Edgar Davidson, and he is a medical stu- 
dent.” 

“ I knew it ! No wonder I was interested in a brother 
of the cloth ! What hospital ? ” 


252 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I don’t know.” 

“ Is he going in for the colleges or for the university ? ” 

“ My dear child, how should I think of asking?” 

# “ I suppose mother did not even inquire who his tailor 
was,” said Evelyn quietly. 

“ I don’t mind about his tailor, but it would interest me 
to know where he gets his scalpels sharpened. What brings 
him here during term ? ” 

Lady Munro had just time to give a sketch of the lad’s 
story, when they arrived at the door of the concert-hall, — 
wonderful alike for its magnificence and its vulgarity, — to 
find the orchestra already carrying away the whole room 
with a brilliant, piquant, irresistible pizzicato. 

“Do take a back seat, mother,” whispered Evelyn, “ we 
can’t have Lucy dancing right up the hall.” 

Lucy shot a glance of lofty scorn at her friend. 

“ I am glad at least that Providence did not make me a 
lamp-post,” she said severely. 

The last note of the piece had not died away, when a 
young man came forward and held out his hand to Lady 
Munro. 

“ Why, Mr. Monteith, my husband has just gone to your 
hotel.” 

“ Yes ; he told me you were here, so I left him and my 
father together.” 

He shook hands with the two girls, and seated himself 
beside Lucy. 

“ You here?” she said, with an air of calm indifference, 
which was very unlike her usual impulsive manner. 

“May, it is I who should say that. You here? And 
you leave me to find it out by chance from Sir Douglas? ” 

“ It did not occur to me that you would be interested ; ” 
and she fanned herself very gracefully, but very unnecessa- 
rily, with her programme. 

“ Little coquette ! ” thought Lady Munro. But Lucy 
looked so charming at the moment, that not even a woman 
could blame her. 

“ How is Cannes looking? ” 

“ Oh, lovely — lovelier than ever. Some awfully nice 
people have come.” 

“ So you don’t miss any of those who have gone ? ” 

“ Not in the least.” 


WEEPING AND LAUGHTER. 


253 


“ And you would not care to see any old friend back 
again for a day or two ? ” 

There was a moment’s pause. 

“ I don’t think there would be room ; the hotel seems 
full—” 

With a sudden burst of harmony the music began, and 
there was no more conversation till the next pause. 

“ Have you ever walked up to the chapel on the hill 
again ? ” 

“ Oh, lots of times.” 

“ You have been energetic. Have you chanced to see 
the Maritime Alps in the strange mystical light we saw that 
day?” 

“ Yes. They always look like that.” 

“ Curious ! Then I suppose the walk has no longer any 
associations — ” 

“ Oh, but it has — bitter associations! We left the path 
to get some asparagus, and my gown caught in a brainble- 
bush, and a dog barked — ” 

The first soft notes of the violins checked the tragic se- 
, quel of her tale, and the music swelled into a pathetic wail- 
ing waltz, which brought the first part of the programme to 
an end. 

Sir Douglas came during the interval to take them 
away, and Mr. Monteith walked down with them to the 
station. 

“ I am sorry there is no room for me at the hotel,” he 
said, as he stood with Lucy on the platform. 

“Pray, don’t take my word for it. I don’t ‘run the 
shanty.’ Perhaps you could get a bed.” 

“ What is the use, if people would be sorry to see an old 
acquaintance ? ” 

“ How can you say such things?” said Lucy, looking up 
at him cordially. “ 1 am sure there are some old ladies in 
the hotel who would be delighted to see you.” 

“ But no young ones ? ” 

“ I can’t answer for them.” 

“ You c&n for yourself.” 

“ Oh, yes.” 

“ And you don’t care one way or the other ? ” 

“ No ; ” she shook her head slowly and regretfully. 

“Not at all?” 


254 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Not at all.” 

“ Not the least bit in the world?” 

Lucy lifted her eyes again demurely. “ When one comes 
to deal with such very small quantities, Mr. Monteith,” she 
said, “ it is difficult to speak with scientific accuracy. If 
you really care to know — ” 

“ Yes?” 

“ Where are the Munros ? ” 

“ In the next carriage. Do finish your sentence.” 

“ I don’t remember what I was going to say,” said Lucy, 
calmly. “ A sure proof, my old nurse used to tell me, that 
it was better unsaid.” 

She sprang lightly up the high step of the carriage, and 
then turned to say good-bye. The colour in her cheeks was 
very bright. 

Ten minutes later she seemed to have forgotten every- 
thing except the wonderful after-glow, which reddened the 
rocks and trees, and converted the whole surface of the sea 
into one blazing ruby shield. 

Sir Douglas was nodding over his newspaper. Lucy 
laid her hand on Lady Munro’s soft fur. 

“ You have been very good to me,” she said. “I don’t 
know how to thank you. I really think you have opened 
the gates of Paradise to me.” 

The words suggested a meaning that Lady Munro did 
not altogether like, but she answered lightly, 

“ It has been a great pleasure to all of us to have you, 
dear ; but you know we don’t mean to let you go on Thurs- 
day.” 

Lucy smiled. “I must,” she said, sadly. “A week 
hence it will all seem like a beautiful dream — a dream that 
will last me all my life.” 

“Well, I am glad to think the roses in your cheeks are 
no dream, and I hope they will last you all your life, too.” 

And then the careless words re-echoed through her 
mind with a deeper significance, and she wished Sir Doug- 
las would wake up and talk, even if it were only to grumble. 

That night there were two private conversations. 

Evelyn had gone into Lucy’s room to brush her hair in 
company. 

“What a touching sight!” said Lucy, laughing sud- 


WEEPING AND LAUGHTER. 


255 


denly, as, by the dancing firelight, she caught sight of the 
two fair young figures in the mirror — their loosened hair 
falling all about their shoulders. “ Come on with your con- 
fidences ! Now is the time. At least so they say in books.” 

“ Unfortunately I have not got any confidences.” 

“ Nor have I — thank heaven ! ” She bent low over the 
glowing wood-fire. “ What slavery love must be ! ” 

Evelyn watched her with interest, but Lucy’s next words 
were somewhat disappointing. 

“ Evelyn,” she said, “ how is it Mona has contrived to 
charm your father so ? I need not tell you what I think 
about her, but, broadly speaking, she is not a man’s woman, 
and I should not have fancied she was the sort of girl to 
fetch Sir Douglas at all.” 

“ I don’t think it strange,” said Evelyn, languidly. “ I 
have often thought about it. You see, she is very like what 
my mother must have been at her age, though not nearly so 
charming to mere acquaintances ; and then just where the 
dear old Mater stops short, the real Mona begins. It must 
be such a surprise to father ! ” 

“ That is ingenious, certainly. How Mr. Monteith ad- 
mires your mother ! ” 

“ Does he ?” 

“ I wonder what he would think of Mona.” 

“ I can’t guess.” 

“ Have you known him long ? ” 

“ Father and mother have known his father long.” 

“ Do you think he is honest ? ” 

“Which?” 

“ The son, of course.” 

“ He never stole anything from me.” 

“ Don’t be a goose ! Do you think he means what he 
says ? ” 

Evelyn paused before replying. 

“ You don’t?” said Lucy, quickly. 

“ I was trying to remember anything he did say,” Eve- 
lyn answered very deliberately. “ The only remark I can re- 
member addressed to myself was, ‘Brute of a day, isn’t it?’ 
I think he meant that. He certainly looked as if he did.” 

“ Douglas,” said Lady Munro, “ would Colonel Monteith 
allow his son to marry Lucy Reynolds ? ” 


256 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Nonsense ! what ideas you do take into your head ! ” 

“ Because, if he would not, things have gone quite far 
enough. George said something to me about coming back 
to Cannes for a day or two. Of course that child is the at- 
traction. If you think it will end in nothing, he must not 
come.” 

“ So that is what her vocation amounts to ! ” 

“ My dear Douglas ! What does she know of life ? She 
is a child — ” 

“ Precisely, and her father is another. God bless my 
soul ! Monteith’s son must marry an heiress.” 

Lady Munro did not pursue the subject ; she had some- 
thing else to talk of. She rose presently, and walked across 
the room. 

“ Douglas,” she said, stopping idly before the glass, “ I 
wish you would give me your recipe for looking youthful. 
You will soon look younger than your wife.” 

“ Nonsense,” he said gruffly, but he smiled. His wife 
did not often make pretty speeches nowadays. As it hap- 
pened she was looking particularly young that night, too. 
Perhaps that fact had struck her, and had suggested the re- 
mark. 

For half an hour they chatted together, as they might 
have done in the old, old days, and then — 

And then Lady Munro broached the subject of the boy 
at Monte Carlo. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

NORTHERN' MISTS. 

It seems gratuitously cruel to take my readers back to 
bleak old Borrowness in this dreary month of December ; 
away from the roses and the sunshine, and the wonderful 
matchless blue, to the mud, and the mist, and the barren 
fields, and the cold, grey sea. 

Princely, luxurious Cannes ! Home of the wealth of 
nations ! stretched out at ease like a beautiful woman, along 
the miles of wooded hill that embrace the bay. Homely, 
work-a-day Borrowness ! stooping down all unseen, shroud- 


NORTHERN MISTS. 


257 


! ed in northern mists, to gather its daily bread. Do you in- 
deed belong to the same world ? feel the same needs ? share 
the same curse ? Do the children play on the graves in the 
one as in the other ? in both do man and maid touch hands 
and blush and wonder ? Is there canker at the core of the 
luscious glowing fruit ? is there living sap in the heart of 
the gnarled and stunted tree ? Beautiful Cannes ! resting, 
expanding, enjoying, smiling ! Brave little Borrowness ! 
frowning and panting and sighing, and wiping with weary 
hand the sweat from a work-worn brow ! 

Christmas was drawing near, but it had been heralded 
by no fairy frost, only by rain and fog and dull grey skies. 
Mona’s life had been unmarked by any event that had dis- 
tinguished one day from another. The last entry in the 
unwritten diary of her life was some three weeks old, and 
consisted of one word in red letters — Stradivarius. And yet 
the days had been so full that, in order to redeem her prom- 
ise to Mr. Reynolds, she had often found herself constrained, 
when bedtime came, to rake together the embers of the fire, 
and spend an hour over the mechanics of the circulation, or 
the phenomena of isomerism. “ Don’t talk to me of the 
terpenes or the recent work on the sugars,” she wrote to a 
friend in London, who had offered to send her some papers. 
“ I have little time to read at all ; and when I do, I have 
sworn to keep to the beaten track. Well-thumbed, jog-trot 
text-books for me; no nice damp Transactions! Wae is 
me, wae is me ! You must send your entrancing fairy tales 
to some one else ! ” 

Trade had continued very brisk in the little shop ; in- 
deed its character and reputation had completely changed. 
A few interesting boxes had arrived from the stores, and the 
local traveller no longer had amusing tales to relate of the 
way in which Miss Simpson kept shop. In fact, had it not 
been for his prospects in life, and for his desire to spare the 
: feelings of his family, he would have been strongly tempted 
to offer his heart and hand to Miss Simpson’s bright and 
capable assistant. It would be an advantage in many ways 
to have a wife who understood the business ; and, poor 
I thing, she would not readily find a husband in Borrowness. 

: She was thrown away at present — there was no doubt of 
I that. Why, with her quick head at figures, and her fine 
lady manners, she could get a situation anywhere. 

17 


258 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona, fortunately, was all unaware of the tempting fruit 
that dangled just above her head. She had, it is true, some 
difficulty in keeping the traveller to the point, when she had 
dealings with him ; but her limited intercourse with the 
other sex had not taught her to regard this as peculiarly 
surprising. 

What rejoiced her heart, far more even than the success 
of the shop, was the number of women and girls who had 
got into the way of consulting her about all sorts of things. 
“ I exist here now,” she wrote to Doris, “ in the dual capaci- 
ty of assistant to Miss Simpson, and of general referee on 
the choice of new goods and the modification of old ones. 
4 Goods ’ is a vague term, and is to be interpreted very liber- 
ally. It includes not only dresses and bonnets and furniture, 
but also husbands.” 

Rachel did not at all approve of this large and unremu- 
nerative clientele. If there had been any question of “ hon- 
esty and religion-like,” it would have been different ; but 
she considered that the “ hussies wasted a deal of Mona’s 
time, when she might have been better employed.” 

To Matilda Cookson, of course, she objected less ; but 
she never could sufficiently express her wonder at Mona’s 
inconsistency in this respect. 

“ As soon as the Cooksons begin to notice you, you just 
bow down like all the rest, for all your fine talk,” she said 
one day in a moment of irritation. 

Mona strove to find a gentle reply in vain, so, contrary 
to all her principles, she was constrained to receive the re- 
mark in irritating silence. 

Matilda Cookson had remained very true to her allegi- 
ance, and would at this time have proved an interesting 
study to any psychologist whose path she had chanced to 
cross. Almost at a glance he could have divided all the 
opinions she uttered into two classes — those that were her 
own, and those that were Mona’s. The former were ex- 
pressed with timid deference ; the latter were flung in the 
face of her acquaintances, with a dogmatic air of finality, 
that was none the less irritating because the opinions them- 
selves were occasionally novel and striking. Matilda glowed 
with pride when she repeated a bold and original remark ; 
she stammered and blushed when one of her own poor 
fledgelings stole into the light. It was on the former that 


NORTHERN MISTS. 


259 


a rapidly developing reputation for “ cleverness ” was inse- 
curely based ; it was the latter that delighted Mona’s heart, 
and _ made her intercouse with the girl a source of never- 
ceasing interest. It is so easy to heap fuel on another mind ; 
but to apply the first spark, to watch it flicker and glow, 
and catch hold — that is one of the things that is worth liv- 
ing for. 

To one of Mona’s protegees Rachel never even referred, 
and that was the girl who had fainted at the soiree. Mona 
had taken an interest in her patient, had prescribed a course 
of arsenic and green vegetables ; and the improvement in 
the girl’s appearance had seemed almost miraculous. 

“ She usedna tae be able tae gang up the stair, without 
sittin’ doon tae get her breath,” said her grandmother to 
Miss Simpson one day, “ an’ noo, my word ! she’s awa’ like 
a cat up a tree.” 

Rachel carefully refrained from repeating this remark 
to Mona. She was afraid that so surprising a result might 
encourage her cousin to persevere in a work which Rachel 
fondly hoped had been relinquished for ever. The good 
soul had been much depressed on chancing to see the pre- 
scription which Mona had written for the girl. Why, it was 
a real prescription — like one of Dr. Burns’. When a woman 
had got the length of writing that , what was the use of tell- 
ing her she would never make a doctor ? What more, when 
you came to think of it, did doctors do ? There was nothing 
for it but to encourage Mr. Brown, and Rachel forthwith de- 
termined to invite him and his sisters to tea. 

The study of the Musci , Algce , and Fungih&d not proved 
a striking success hitherto. There had been one delightful 
ramble among the rocks and pools, but since then the pursuit 
had somewhat flagged. Several excursions had been ar- 
ranged, but all had fallen through. On one occasion Miss 
Brown had been confined to the house ; on another she had 
been obliged to visit an aunt who was ill ; and on a third 
the weather had been unpropitious. 

“ My dear,” said Rachel one day, after the formation of 
the bold resolution above recorded, “ if you are going in to 
Kirkstoun, you might stop at Donald’s on the Shore, and 
order some cookies and shortbread. To-morrow’s the day 
the cart comes round, and I’m expecting Mr. Brown and 
his sisters to tea.” 


260 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona nearly dropped the box of tape she was holding. 

“ Dear cousin,” she said, “ the sisters have never called 
on you, have they ? ” 

“ No,” replied Rachel frankly, “but one must make a 
beginning. They offered us tea the day we were there.” 

“ I promised Mrs. Ewing that I would play the organ 
for the choir practice to-morrow evening.” 

“ Well, I’m sure I never heard the like ! She just takes 
her use of you.” 

“ You must not forget that she allows me to practise on 
the organ whenever I like. It is an infinite treat to me.” 

“And what’s the use of it, I wonder? You can’t take 
an organ about with you when you go out to tea.” 

“ That’s perfectly true,” said Mona, laughing ; “ it is a 
selfish pleasure, no doubt.” 

“ It all comes of your going to the English chapel in the 
evening. If you’d taken my advice, you’d never have dark- 
ened its doors. They say so much about Mr. Ewing being 
a gentleman, but I do think it was a queer-like thing their 
asking you to lunch, and never saying a word about me. 
Mr. Stuart doesn’t set himself up for anything great, but he 
did ask you to tea along with me.” 

“ The Ewings have not been introduced to you, dear.” 

“And whose doing is that, I’d like to know? We’ve 
met them often enough in the town.” 

Mona sighed. She considered that lunch at the Ewings’ 
the great mistake of her life at Borrowness. She had re- 
solved so heroically that Rachel’s friends were to be her 
friends ; but the invitation had been given suddenly, and , 
she had accepted it. She had not stopped to think of infant 
baptism, or the relations of Church and State j or the pro- 
priety of a clergyman eking out his scanty stipend by rais- 
ing prize poultry, or of allowing himself to be “ taken up ” 
by the people at the Towers; she had had a momentary 
mental vision of silky damask and of sparkling crystal, 
of intelligent conversation and of cultured voices, and the 
temptation had proved irresistible. The meek man lives 1 
in history by his hasty word, the truthful man’s lie echoes 
on throughout the ages; the sin that is in opposition to 
our character, and to the resolutions of a lifetime, stands 
out before all the world with hideous distinctness. So in 
the very nature of things, if Mona had gone to Borrow- 


THE ALG^E AND FUNGI. 


261 


ness, as she might have done, armed with introductions to 
all the county families in the neighbourhood, Rachel would 
have felt herself less injured than by that single lunch at 
the Ewings’. 

“Well, I will order the things at Donald’s,” said Mona, 
after an awkward silence. 

“Yes, tell him I’ll take the shortbread in any case, but 
I’ll only take the cookies if my visitors come.” 

“ Oh, then they have not accepted yet? ” 

“ No.” 

“Then I need not have distressed myself,” thought 
Mona, “ for they certainly won’t come.” But she was an- 
noyed all the same that Rachel should have subjected her- 
self to the unnecessary snub of a refusal. 

The refusal arrived that evening. It was worded with 
bare civility. They “ regretted that they were unable,” but 
they did not think it necessary to explain why they were 
unable. 

Rachel was very cross about the slight to herself, but 
she was not at all disheartened about her plan. One trump- 
card was thrown away, but she still held the king and the 
ace ; the king was Mona’s “ tocher,” and the ace was Mr. 
Brown himself. The original damp box of plants had been 
followed by a number of others, and these had latterly been 
hailed by Rachel with much keener delight than they had 
afforded to Mona. Mr. Brown was all right ; there could 
be no shadow of doubt about that; and Rachel would not 
allow herself to fancy for a moment that Mona might be so 
blind to a sense of her own interests as to side with the 
Misses Brown. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE ALGA3 AND FUNGI. 

The bazaar as an institution is played out. There can 
certainly be no two opinions about that. It has lived 
through a youth of humble usefulness, a middle life of gor- 
geous magnificence, and it is now far gone in an old age of 


262 


MONA MACLEAN. 


decrepitude and shams. It has attained the elaboration and 
complexity which are incompatible with farther existence, 
and it must die. The cup of its abuse and iniquities is full. 
It has had its day ; let it follow many things better than 
itself — great kingdoms, mighty systems — into the region of 
the things that have been and are not. 

Yet even where the bazaar is already dead, we all seem 
to combine, sorely against our will, to keep the old mummy 
on its feet. Nor is the reason for our inconsistency far to 
seek. The bazaar knows its world ; there is scarcely a 
human weakness — a weakness either for good or for evil — to 
which it does not appeal ; so it dies hard, and, in spite of 
ourselves, we cherish it to the last. 

How we hate it ! How the very appearance of its name 
in print fills our minds with reminiscences of nerve-strain, 
and boredom, and shameless persecution ! 

This being so, it is a matter of profound regret to me 
that a bazaar should appear at all in the pages of my story ; 
but it is bound up inextricably with the course of events, so 
I must beg my readers to bear up as best they may. 

“ My dear,” said Rachel, coming into the shop one day, 
eager and breathless, “ I have got a piece of news for you 
to-day. The Miss Bonthrons want you to help them with 
their stall at the bazaar ! It seems they have been quite 
taken with your manner in the shop, and they think you’ll 
be far more use than one of those dressed-up fusionless 
things that only want to amuse themselves, and don’t know 
what’s left if you take three-and-sixpence from the pound. 
Of course they are very glad, too, that you should have the 
ploy. I told them I was sure you would be only too de- 
lighted. They were asking if there was no word of your 
being baptised and joining the church yet.” 

Mona bent low over hei account-book, and it was a full 
minute before she replied. Her first impulse was to refuse 
the engagement altogether ; her second was to accept with 
an indignant protest ; her third and last was to accept with- 
out a word. If she had been doomed to spend a lifetime 
with Rachel, things would have been different ; as it was, 
there were not three more months of the appointed time to 
run. For those months she must do her very utmost to 
avoid all cause of offence. 

“ I think a bazaar is the very last thing I am fitted for,” 


THE ALGJ3 AND FUNGI. 


263 


she said quietly, “ but, if you have settled it with the Bon- 
throns, I suppose there is nothing more to be said.” 

“ Oh, you’ll manage fine, I’m sure. There’s no doubt 
you’ve a gift for that kind of thing. I can tell you there’s 
many a one would be glad to stand in your shoes. You’ll 
see you’ll get all your meals in the refreshment-room for 
nothing, and a ticket for the ball as well.” 

“ I don’t mean to go to the ball.” 

“ Hoots, lassie, you’ll never stay away when the ticket costs 
you nothing ! I am thinking I might go myself, perhaps, 
to take care of you like. It’ll be a grand sight, they say, 
and it’s not often I get the chance of wearing my green 

Again the infinite pathos of this woman, with all her 
vulgar, disappointed little ambitions, took Mona’s heart by 
storm, as it had done on the night of her arrival at Borrow- 
ness ; and a gentle answer came unbidden to her lips. 

That afternoon, however, she considered herself fully 
entitled to set off and drink tea with Auntie Bell, and 
Rachel raised no objection when she suggested the idea. 

“ I would be glad if you would do a little business for 
me, as you pass through Kilwinnie,” she said. 

“ I will with pleasure.” 

“ Just go into Mr. Brown’s,” she said, “and ask him if 
he still has green ribbon like what he sold me for my bon- 
net last year. The strings are quite worn out. I think a 
yard and a half should do. I’ll give you a pattern.” 

Mona fervently wished that the bit of business could 
have been transacted in any other shop, but it would not do 
to draw back from her promise now. 

As she passed along the high street of Kilwinnie, she 
saw Miss Brown’s face at the window above the shop, and 
she bowed as she crossed the street. Mr. Brown was en- 
gaged with another customer, so Mona went up to the 
young man at the opposite counter, thankful to escape so 
easily. But it was no use. In the most barefaced way Mr. 
Brown effected an exchange of customers, and came up to 
her, his solemn face all radiant with sudden pleasure. His 
eyes, like those of a faithful dog, more than atoned at times 
for his inability to speak. 

“How is Miss Simpson?” he asked. This was his one 
idea of making a beginning. 


264 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ She is very well, thank you,” and Mona proceeded at 
once with the business in hand. 

They had just settled the question, when, to Mona’s in- 
finite relief, Miss Brown tripped down the stair leading into 
the shop. 

“Won’t you come up-stairs and rest for ten minutes, 
Miss Maclean ? ” she said. “ We are having an early cup of 
tea. No, no, Philip, we don’t want you. Gentlemen have 
no business with afternoon tea.” 

Mona could not have told what induced her to accept 
the invitation. She certainly did not wish to do it. Per- 
haps she was glad to escape on any terms from those pathetic 
brown eyes. 

Mr. Brown’s face fell, then brightened again. 

“ Perhaps while you are talking, you will arrange for 
another walk,” he said. 

Mona followed Miss Brown up the dark little stair into 
the house, and they entered the pleasant sitting-room. The 
ladies of the house received their visitor cordially, and pro- 
ceeded to entertain her with conversation, which seemed to 
be friendly, if it was neither spirituel nor very profound. 
Presently it turned on the subject of husband-hunting. 

“ Now, Miss Maclean,” said one, “ would you call my 
brother an attractive man?” 

Mona was somewhat taken aback by the directness of 
the question. 

“ I never thought of him in that connection,” she an- 
swered honestly. 

“ Well, you know, he is not a marrying man at all. 
Anybody can see that ; and yet you would not believe me if 
I were to tell you the number of women who have set their 
caps at him. Any other man would have his head turned 
completely; but he never seems to see it. We get the 
laugh all to ourselves.” 

“ Clever as he is,” put in another sister, “ he is a regular 
simpleton where women are concerned. He treats them 
just as if they were men, and of course they take advantage 
of it, and get him talked about and laughed at.” 

“We tell him it really is too silly,” said the third, “ that, 
after all his experience, he should not know how to take 
care of himself.” 

Mona turned very pale, but she answered thoughtfully. 


THE ALGM AND FUNGI. 


265 


“ When yon asked me whether I considered Mr. Brown 
an attractive man, I was inclined at first to say no ; but 
what you say of him crystallises my ideas somewhat. I 
think his great attraction lies in the fact that he can meet 
women on common ground, without regard to sex. He 
realises, perhaps, that a woman may care for knowledge, 
and even for friendship, as well as for a husband. I should 
not try to change him, if I were you. His views may he 
peculiar here, but they are not altogether uncommon among 
cultured people.” 

She said the last words gently, with a pleasant smile, 
and then proceeded to put on her furs with an air of quiet 
dignity that would not have discredited Lady Munro her- 
self, and that seemed to throw the Browns to an infinite 
distance. 

It was some moments before any of them found voice. 

“ Must you go ? ” said the eldest at last, somewhat 
feebly. “ Won’t you take another cup of tea? ” 

“ Thank you very much, but I am on my way to drink 
tea with Mrs. Easson.” 

“ Queer homely body, isn’t she ? ” said the second sister, 
recovering herself. “ She is your cousin, is she not ? ” 

“ I am proud to say she is.” 

“ Oh, we’ve never arranged about the walk,” said the 
third. “ Any day next week that will suit you, will suit me.” 

“ Oh, thank you ; I am afraid this wonderful bazaar is 
going to absorb all our energies for some time to come. I 
fear the walk will have to be postponed indefinitely.” 

She shook hands graciously with her hostesses, and went 
slowly down by the stair that opened on the street. 

“ If I were five years younger,” she said to herself, “ I 
should be tempted to encourage Mr. Brown, just the least 
little bit in the world, and then — ” 

But not even when Mona was a girl could she have been 
tempted, for more than a moment, to avenge a petty wrong 
at the expense of those great, sad eyes. 

Mr. Brown had been looking out, and he came forward 
to meet her, nervous, eager. 

“ Have you arranged a day ? ” he asked. 

“ Ho ; I fear I am going to be very busy for the next 
few weeks. It is very kind of you to suggest another walk. 
Good-bye.” 


266 


MONA MACLEAN. 


She was unconscious that her whole manner and bear- 
ing had changed in the last quarter of an hour, but he felt 
it keenly, and guessed something of what had happened. 

“ Miss Maclean,” he said, hoarsely, grasping the hand 
she tried to withdraw, “ what do we want with one of them | 
in our walks ? Come with me. Come up-stairs with me 
now, and we’ll tell them — ” 

“ I have stayed too long already,” said Mona, hastily ; 

“ good-bye.” And without trusting herself to look at him 
again, she hurried away. 

Her cheeks were very bright, and her eyes suffused with 
tears, as she continued her walk. 

“ How disgraceful ! ” she kept repeating ; “ how dis- 
graceful ! I must have been horribly to blame, or it never 
would have come to this.” 

But, as usual, before long her sense of the comic came 
to her rescue. 

“Verily, my dear,” she said, with a heavy sigh, “the 
study of the Algce and Fungi is a large one, and leads us 
farther than we anticipated.” 

Amntie Bell would not have been the shrewd woman she 
was, if she had not seen at a glance that something was wrong 
with her darling ; but she showed her sympathy by hastily 
“ masking the tea,” and cutting great slices from a home- 
made cake. 

“ Eh, but ye’re a sicht for sail* een ! ” she said, as she 
bustled in and out of the sitting-room. “ I declare ye’re 
bonnier than iver i’ that fur thing. Weel, hoo’s a’ wi 
ye?” 

“ Oh, I am blooming, as you see. Rachel is well, too.” 

“ An’ what w’y suld she no’ be weel ? She’s no i’ the 
w’y o’ daein’ onything that’s like to mak’ her ill, I fancv, 
eh? Hae ye been efter the butterflies again wi’ Maister 
Broon ? ” 

The unexpected question brought the tell-tale colour to 
Mona’s cheek. 

“ No,” she said, “ I am not going any more. It is not 
the weather for that sort of thing.” 

“ Na,” said Auntie Bell, tersely; “ nor he isna the mon 
for that sort o’ thing. He’s a guid mon, nae doot, an’ a 
diver, they say, for a’ he’s sae quite an’ sae canny, an’ sae 


THE ALGJE AND FUNGI. 267 

ta’en up wi’s beasts and things ; but he’s no the mon for 
the like o’ you. Ye wadna tak’ him, Mona?” 

“ Dear Auntie Bell,” said Mona, abashed, “ such a thing 
never even occurred to me — ” 

She did not add “ until,” but her honest face said it for 
her. 

“ He’s no’ been askin’ ye ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Mona, warmly, “ and he never will. Can 
a man and woman not go ‘ after the butterflies,’ as you call 
it, without thinking of love and marriage ? ” 

Auntie Bell’s face was worth looking at. 

“ I nae ken,” she said, grimly, “ I hae ma doots.” 

“ Well, I assure you Mr. Brown has not even mentioned 
such a thing to me.” 

Auntie Bell eyed her keenly through the gold spec- 
tacles, but Mona did not flinch. 

“ Then his sisters have,” thought the old woman, 
shrewdly. “ I’ll gie them a piece o’ ma mind the neist time 
I’m doun the toun.” 

Mona’s visits were necessarily very short on these winter 
afternoons, and as soon as tea was over she rose to go. 

“ Are ye aye minded tae gang hame, come Mairch ? ” 
said Auntie Bell. 

“ Oh yes, I cannot possibly stay longer.” 

“ What’s to come o’ the shop ? ” 

“ I will look out for an intelligent young person to fill 
my place.” 

“ Ay, ye may luik ! Weel, I’ll no’ lift a finger tae gar 
ye bide. Yon’s no’ the place for ye. But I nae ken hoo 
I’m tae thole wi’oot the sicht o’ yer bonnie bricht een.” 

“ Dear Auntie Bell,” said Mona affectionately, “ you are 
coming to see me, you know.” 

“ Me ! hoot awa’, lassie ! It’s a far cry tae Lunnon, an’ 
I’m ower auld tae traivel ma lane.” 

They were standing by the open door, and the moon- 
light fell full on the worn, eager face. 

“ Then come with me when I go. I can’t tell you how 
pleased and proud I should be to have you.” 

The old woman’s face beamed. “ Ay ? My word ! An’ 
ye’d tak’ me in a first-cless cairriage, and treat me like a 
queen, I’ll be boun’. Mrs. Dodds o’ the neist fairm is aye 
speirin’ at me if I’ll no’ gang wi’ the cheap trip tae Edin- 


268 


MONA MACLEAN. 


bury for the New Year. I’ll tell her I could gang a’ the 
way tae Lunnon, like a leddy, an’ no’ be the puirer for the 
ootin’ by ae bawbee.” 

She executed a characteristic war-dance in the moon- 
light. “ Aweel,” she resumed, with sudden gravity, “ ye’ll 
mind me tae Rachel, and tell her auld Auntie Bell’s as daft 
as iver ! ” 

“ Well, you promised to dance at my wedding, you 
know,” and, waving her hand, Mona set olf with a light, 
quick step. 

Her thoughts were very busy as she hastened along, but 
her decision was made before she reached home. “ I will 4 i 
write a short note to Mr. Brown to-night,” she said, “ and 
tell him I find life too short for the study of the Algce and 
Fungi.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE BAZAAR. 

It was the first day of the bazaar. 

The weather was mild and bright, and the whole town 
wore an aspect of excitement. The interior of the hall was 
not perhaps a vision of artistic harmony ; the carping critic 
might have seen in it a striking resemblance to the brilliant, 
old-fashioned patchwork quilt which some good woman had 
sent as her contribution, and which was now being sub- 
jected to a fire of small wit and adverse criticism, in the 
process of being raffled ; but, to the inhabitants of the place, 
such a sight was worth crossing the county to behold, and 
indeed, at the worst, it was a bright and festive scene with 
its brave bunting and festoons of evergreens. 

“ Let Kirkstoun flourish ! ” was inscribed in letters of 
holly along the front of the gallery, in which a very fair 
brass band, accustomed apparently to performing in the 
open air, was pouring forth jaunty and dashing national 
music, which fell with much acceptance on well-balanced 
nerves. 

The bazaar had formally been declared open by the 


THE BAZAAR. 


269 


great local patron, Sir Roderick Allison of Balnamora, and 
already the crowd was so great that movement was becom- 
ing difficult. Whatever Mona’s feelings had been before 
the “function” came on, she was throwing herself into it 
now with heart and soul. All the day before she had been 
hard at work, draping, arranging, vainly attempting to 
classify ; and the Bonthrons had many times found occa- 
sion to congratulate themselves on their choice of an assist- 
ant. The good ladies had very shyly offered to provide her 
with a dress for the occasion — “ something a little brighter, 
you know, than that you have on ; not but what that’s very 
nice and useful.” 

“ Thank you very much,” Mona had replied frankly. “ I 
should be very glad to accept your kind offer, but I have 
something in London which I think will be suitable. I will 
ask a friend to send it.” 

So now she was looking radiant, in a gown that was 
quiet enough too in its way, but which was so obviously a 
creation that it excited the attention of everyone who knew 
her. 

“ She does look a lady ! ” said the Miss Bonthron with 
the eyeglass. 

“ Well, my dear,” replied the one with the curls, “she 
might have been a lady, if her father had lived. They say 
he was quite a remarkable man, like his father before him. 
Where would we be ourselves if Father had not laid by a 
little property ? I suppose it is all ordained for the best.” 

“ I call it simply ridiculous for a shop-girl to dress like 
that,” said Clarinda Cookson to her sister. “ It is fright- 
fully bad taste. Anybody can see that she never had on a 
dress like that in her life before. She means to make the 
most of this bazaar. It is a great chance for her.” 

Matilda bit her lip, and did not answer. By dint of 
long effort, silence was becoming easier to her. 

And now none of the stall-holders had any leisure to 
think of dress, for this was the time of day when the people 
come who are really prepared to buy, independently of the 
chance of a bargain ; and money was pouring in. Mona 
was hard at work, making calculations for her patronesses, 
hunting for “ something that would do for a gentleman,” 
sympathising with the people who were strongly attracted 
by a few, and a few things only, on her stall, and those the 


270 


MONA MACLEAN. 


articles that were ticketed “ sold,” — striving, in short, for 
the moment, to be all things to all men. 

She felt that day as if she had received a fresh lease of 
youth. Nothing came amiss to her. She was the life and 
soul of her corner of the hall, much to the delight of Doris, 
who, fair, serene, and sweet, was watching her friend in 
every spare moment from the adjoining stall. Perhaps the 
main cause conducing to Mona’s good spirits was the fact 
that Rachel was confined to the house with a cold. Mona 
was honestly and truly sorry for her cousin’s disappoint- 
ment ; she would gladly have borne the cold and confine- 
ment vicariously ; but as that was impossible — well, it was 
pleasant for a day or two to be responsible only for her 
bright young self. 

In a surprisingly short time the ante-prandial rush was 
over, and there was a comparative lull, during which stall- 
holders could compare triumphant notes, or even steal away 
to the refreshment-room. But now there was a sudden stir 
and bustle at the door. 

“ Well, I declare,” exclaimed Miss Bonthron, eagerly, 
“ if this is not the party from the Towers ! ” 

The two great local magnates of the neighbourhood were 
Sir Roderick Allison of Balnamora and Lord Kirkhope of 
the Towers. Sir Roderick in his capacity of member for 
the eastern part of the county, took an interest in all that 
went on in the place ; and although his presence at public 
gatherings was always considered a great honour, it was 
treated very much as a matter of course. The Kirkhopes, 
on the other hand, lived a frivolous, fashionable, irresponsible 
life ; acknowledged no duties to their social inferiors, and 
were content to show their public spirit by permitting an 
occasional flower-show in their grounds ; so, if on any occa- 
sion they did go out of their way to grace a local festivity, 
their presence was considered an infinitely greater triumph 
than was that of good bluff Sir Roderick. The parable of 
the prodigal son is of very wide application ; and, where 
humanity only is concerned, its interpretation is sometimes 
a very sinister one. 

Lady Kirkhope had filled her house with a large party of 
people for the Christmas holidays ; and some sudden freak 
had induced her to bring a number of them in to the Kirks- 
toun Bazaar, just as a few months earlier she had taken her 


THE BAZAAR. 


271 


guests to the fair at St. Rules, to see the fat woman and the 
girl with two heads. “ Anything for a lark !” she used to 
say, and it might have been well if all the amusements with 
which she sought to while away her sojourn in the country 
had been as rational as these. As it was, good, staid country- 
people found it a little difficult sometimes to see exactly 
wherein the “lark” consisted. Even this fact, however, 
tended rather to increase than to diminish the excitement 
with which the great lady’s arrival was greeted at the ba- 
zaar. 

Mona, not being a native, was but little interested in the 
new-comers, save from a money-making point of view ; and 
she was leaning idly against the wall, half smiling at the 
commotion the event had caused, when all at once her heart 
gave a leap, and the blood rushed madly over her face. 
Within twenty yards of her, in Lady Kirkhope’s party, 
chatting and laughing, as he used to do in the good old 
days, stood the Sahib. There was no doubt about it. A 
correct morning dress had taken the place of the easy tweeds 
and the old straw hat, but the round, brotherly, boyish face 
was the same as ever. The very sight of it called up in 
Mona’s mind a flood of happy reminiscences, as did the 
friendly face of the moon above the chimney-pots to the 
home-sick author of Bilderbuch. 

Oh, it was good to see him again ! For one moment 
Mona revelled in the thought of all they would have to say 
to each other, and then — 

“ My dear,” said Miss Bonthron, “ I think you have 
some little haberdashery cases like this in your shop. How 
much do you think we might ask for it?” 

Like the “ knocking at the door ” in Macbeth, the words 
brought Mona back to a world of prose realities. With 
swift relentless force the recollection rushed upon her mind 
that the Sahib had come with the “ county people ” to 
honour the bazaar with his presence ; while she was a poor 
little shop-girl, who had been asked to assist, partly as a 
great treat, and partly because of her skill in subtracting 
three-and-sixpence from the pound. 

“ Half-a-crown we price them. I think you might say 
three shillings here,” she said, smiling ; but deep down in 
her mind she was thinking, “ Oh, I hope, I hope he won’t 
notice me ! Doris is bad enough, but picture the Sahib in 


272 


MONA MACLEAN. 


the shop ! ” She broke into a little laugh that was half a 
sob, and her eyes looked suspiciously bright. 

“ Mona,” said Doris, coming up to her suddenly, “ some- 
body is looking very charming to-day, do you know ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Mona boldly, flashing back the compliment 
in an admiring glance ; “ I have been thinking so all morn- 
ing, whenever intervening crowds allowed me to catch a 
glimpse of her.” 

“ I have been longing so to say to all the room, ‘ Do you 
see that bright young thing? She is a medical student ! ’ ” 

“ Pray don’t ! ” said Mona, horrified. “ My cousin would 
never forgive you — nor, indeed, for the matter of that, should 
I. How are you getting on ?” 

“ My dear,” was the reply, “ I have sold more rubbish 
this morning than I ever even saw before. After all, the 
secret of success at bazaars lies solely in the fact that there 
is no accounting for tastes.” 

At this moment a customer claimed Mona’s attention, 
and, when she looked up again, Doris was in earnest con- 
versation with an elderly gentleman. Mona overheard 
something about “ women’s power.” 

“ Women,” was the reply, delivered with a courteous 
bow, “ have no power, they have only influence.” 

Doris flushed, then said serenely, “ We won’t dispute it. 
Influence is the soul, of which power is the outward 
form.” 

How sweet she looked as she stood there, her flower-like 
face uplifted, her dimpled chin in air, shy yet defiant! 
Mona thought she had never seen her friend look so charm- 
ing, so utterly unlike everybody else. A moment later she 
perceived that she was not alone in her admiration. Un- 
conscious that he was observed, a man stood a few yards off, 
listening to the conversation with a comical expression of 
amused, admiring interest ; and that man was the Sahib. 

Take your eyes off him, Mona, Mona, if you do not 
wish to be recognised ! Too late ! A wave of sunlight 
rushed across his face, kindling his homely features into a 
glow that gladdened Mona’s heart, and swept away all her 
hesitation. Verily she could trust this man, whom all 
women looked upon as a brother. 

He resolutely dismissed the sunshine from his face, how- 
ever, as he came up and shook hands. He could not deny 


THE BAZAAR. 273 

that he was glad to see her, but nothing could alter the fact 
that she had treated him very badly. 

44 I called on you in London,” he said in an injured tone, 
after their first greetings had been exchanged, 44 but it was 
a case of 4 Gone ; no address.’ ” 

44 Oh, I am sorry,” said Mona. 44 It never occurred to 
me that you would call.” 

He looked at her sharply. Her regret was so manifest 
that he could not doubt her sincerity ; and yet it was diffi- 
cult sometimes to believe that she was not playing fast and 
loose. It was not as if she were an ordinary girl, ready to 
flirt with any man she met. Was it likely, after all they 
had said to each other in Norway, that he would let her 
slip out of his life without a protest ? Was it possible that 
the idea of his calling upon her in London had never 
crossed her mind ? 

Mona was very far from guessing his thoughts. Strong 
in the conviction that she was not a 44 man’s woman,” she 
expected little from men, and counted little on what they ap- 
peared to give. She had a feeling of warm personal friend- 
ship for the Sahib, but it had never occurred to her to 
wonder what his feeling might be for her. Had they met 
after a separation of ten years, she wotild have welcomed 
with pleasure the cordial grasp of his hand ; but that in the 
meantime he should go out of his way to see her, simply, as 
she said, never crossed her mind. 

44 Who would have thought of meeting you at a bazaar? ” 
he said. 

44 It is I who should have said that. But, in truth, I am 
not here by any wish of my own. The arrangement was 
made for me. I should have looked forward to it with more 
pleasure if I had known I was to meet you.” 

His face brightened. 44 It is my turn now to protest 
that it is I who should have said that ! My hostess brought 
a party of us. I am helping to spend Christmas in the old 
style at the Towers. Where are you staying, or have you 
just come over for the function ?” 

Mona’s heart sank. 44 No, I am visiting a cousin in the 
neighbourhood.” 

44 Then I hope I may give myself the pleasure of call- 
ing Have you had lunch ? ” 

44 Not yet.” 

18 


274 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ That is right. I am sure you can be spared for the 
next quarter of an hour.” 

Mona introduced him to Miss Bonthron as a “ family 
friend,” and then took his arm. Now that they had met, 
no ridiculous notions of propriety should prevent their see- 
ing something of each other. 

“ Do you know Lady Kirkhope ? ” he asked, as he piloted 
the way through the hall. 

“No. I had better tell you at once that I am not in the 
least likely to know her ; I — ” 

“ Lady Kirkhope,” said the Sahib suddenly, stopping in 
front of a vivacious dame. “ I am sure you will be glad to 
make the acquaintance of Miss Maclean. She is the daugh- 
ter of Gordon Maclean, of whom we were talking last even- 
ing.” 

“ Then I am proud to shake hands with her,” said the 
lady graciously. “ There are very few men, Miss Maclean, 
whom I admire as I did your father.” 

A few friendly words followed, and then the Sahib and 
Mona continued their way. 

“ Oh, Mr. Dickinson,” said Mona, when they had reached 
the large refreshment-room, and were seated in a deserted 
corner, “ what have you done ? ” 

“Well, what have I done?” said the Sahib in good- 
humoured mystification. “ I ought to have asked your per- 
mission before introducing you in a place like this; but 
Lady Kirkhope is not at all particular in that sort of way, 
and we met her so apropos. I am sure you would not mind 
if you knew how she spoke of your father.” 

“ It is not that.” Mona drew a long breath. “ It is not 
your fault in the least, but I don’t think any human being 
was ever placed in such a false position as I am.” She hesi- 
tated. When she had first seen the glad friendly smile on 
the Sahib’s face, she had fancied it would be so easy to tell 
him the whole story ; but now the situation seemed so ab- 
surd, so grotesque, so impossible, that she could not find 
words. 

“ Mr. Dickinson,” she said at last, “ Lady Munro really 
is my aunt.” 

“ She appears to he under a strong impression to that 
effect.” 

“ And Gordon Maclean was my father.” 


THE BAZAAR. 


275 


“ So I have heard.” 

“ And my mother, Miss Lennox, was a lady whom any 
one would have been glad to know.” 

“ That I can answer for ! ” 

“ But I never told you all that ? I never traded on my 
relatives, or even spoke of them ? ” 

“ I scarcely need to answer that question. Your exor- 
dium is striking, but don’t keep me in suspense longer than 
you can help.” 

Mona did not join in his smile. 

“ All that,” she said with a great effort, “ is true ; and 
it is equally true that at the present moment I am living 
with a cousin who keeps a small shop at Borrowness. I 
have been asked to sell at this bazaar simply because — c'est 
mon metier , a moi. I ought to do it well. Now you 
know why I did not wish to be introduced to Lady Kirk- 
hope.” 

It was a full minute before the Sahib spoke, and then 
his answer was characteristic. 

“ What on earth,” he asked, “ do you do it for ? ” 

Mona was herself again in a moment. 

“ Why do I do it ? ” she said proudly. “ Why should I 
not do it? My cousin has as much claim on me as the 
Munros have, and she needs me a great deal more. If I 
must stand or fall by my relatives, I choose to fall with 
Rachel Simpson rather than to stand with Lady Munro.” 

She rose to go, but he caught her hand. 

“ You said once that you had no wish to measure your 
strength against mine,” he said in a low voice. “ I don’t 
mean to let you go, so perhaps you had better sit down. It 
would be a pity to have a scene.” 

“ Let my hand go in any case.” 

“ Honest Injun?” 

She yielded unwillingly with a laugh. 

“ Honest Injun,” she said. “ As we are here, I will stay 
! for ten minutes,” and she laid her watch on the table. 

“ That is right. I never knew any difficulty that was 
made easier by refusing to eat one’s lunch.” 

“ I don’t admit that I am in any difficulty, and your 
way, too, is clear.” She made a movement of her head in 
the direction of the door. “ I am only sorry that you did 
not give me a chance to tell you all this before you intro- 


276 


MONA MACLEAN. 


duced me to Lady Kirkhope. If I had known you were 
coming, I should have given you a hint to avoid me.” 

“ Miss Maclean,” he said, “ will you allow me to say that 
you are a little bit morbid ? ” 

She met his eyes with a frank full glance from her own. 

“ That is true,” she said, with sudden conviction. 

“ And for a woman like you to see that you are morbid 
is to cease to be morbid.” 

“ I am sure I don’t want to be ; but indeed it is so diffi- 
cult to see what is simple and right. I have often smiled 
to think how I told you in summer, that the ‘ great, puz- 
zling subject of compromise ’ had never come into my 
life.” 


“ You said on the same occasion, if I remember rightly, 
that my life was infinitely franker and more straightfor- 
ward than yours. I presume you don’t say so still? ” 

“ I do, with all my heart.” 

“ H’m. Do you think it likely that I would go routing 
up poor relations for the pleasure of devoting myself ex- 
clusively to their society ? ” 

Mona’s face flushed. “ Mr. Dickinson,” she said, “ I 
ought to tell you that I arranged to come to my cousin 
before I met the Munros. I don’t say that I should not 
have done it in any case, but I made the arrangement at 
a time when, with many friends, I was practically alone in 
the world. And also,” — she thought of Colonel Lawrence’s 
story, — “ even apart from the Munros, if I had known all 
that I know now, about circumstances in the past, I am 
not sure that I should have come at all. That is all my 
heroics are worth.” 

“ You are a magnificently honest woman.” 

“ I am not quite sure that I am not the greatest humbug 
that ever lived. Two minutes more. Do you bear in 
mind that Lady Kirkhope said she would call on me ? ” 

“ I will see to that. Am I forgiven for introducing you 
to her?” 

Mona smiled. “ I shall take my revenge by introducing 
you to a much greater woman, my friend, Doris Colqu- 
houn.” 

“ When am I to meet you again ? May I call ? ” 

“ No.” 


“ How do you get home to-night? ” 


THE BALL. 


277 


“ Miss Bronthon sends me in a cab.” 

“ Shall you be at the ball ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You can easily get a good chaperon.” 

“ Oh yes.” 

“ Will you go to the ball if I ask it as a personal favour 
to me?” 

Mona reflected. “ I don’t see why I should not,” she 
said simply. 

“ Thank you. And in the meantime, Miss Maclean, 
don’t be in too great a hurry to stand or fall with anybody. 
You have not only yourself to think of, you know ; we are 
all members one of another. And now behold your prey ! 
Take me to your stall, and I will buy whatever you 
like.” 

The Sahib was not the only victim who yielded himself 
up unreservedly to Mona’s tender mercies that day. Mr. 
Brown came to the bazaar in the afternoon with a five- 
pound note in his pocket, and something more than four 
pound ten was spent at Miss Bonthron’s stall. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE BALL. 

A spacious hall with a well-waxed floor ; a profusion of 
coloured lights and hothouse plants; a small string-band 
capable of posing any healthy, human thing under twenty- 
three with the reiterated query, “ Where are the joys like 
dancing ? ” — all these things may be had on occasion, even 
in an old-world fishing town on the bleak east coast. 

For youth is youth, thank heaven ! over all the great 
wide world; and the sturdy sonsy northern girl, in her 
spreading gauzy folds of white or blue, is as desirable in the 
eyes of the shy young clerk, in unaccustomed swallow-tails, 
as is the languid, dark-eyed daughter of the South to her 
picturesque impassioned lover. Nay, the awkward sheepish 
youth himself, he too is young, and, for some blue-eyed girl, 


278 


MONA MACLEAN. 


his voice may have the irresistible cadence, his touch the 
magnetic thrill, that Romeo’s had for J uliet. 

So do not, I pray you, despise my provincial ball, be- 
cause the dancing falls short alike in the grace of constant 
habit and in the charm of absolute naivete. The room is all 
aglow with youth and life and excitement. One must be a 
cynic indeed not to take pleasure in that. There is some- 
thing beautiful too, surely, even in the proud self-conscious- 
ness with which the “ Provost’s lady ” steps out to head the 
first quadrille with good Sir Roderick, and in the shy delight 
with which portly dames, at the bidding of grey-haired 
sires, forget the burden of years, and renew the days of their 
youth. 

At Doris’s earnest request, Mona had come to the ball 
with her party, for of course the Bonthrons disapproved of 
the whole proceeding. Rachel had insisted on going to the 
bazaar on the last day, to see the show and pick up a few 
bargains; and, as the hall was overheated, and nothing 
would induce her to remove her magnificent fur-lined cloak, 
she had caught more cold on returning to the open air. 
Mona had offered very cordially to stay at home with her on 
the night of the ball ; but Rachel had been sufficiently ill to 
read two sermons in the course of the day ; and, in the fit 
of magnanimity naturally consequent on such occupation, 
she had stoutly and kindly refused to listen to a proposal 
which seemed to her more generous than it really was. 

It was after ten when the party from the Towers entered 
the brilliant, resounding, whirling room. The Sahib had 
half expected that Lady Kirkhope, in her pursuit of a 
“lark,” would accompany them; but she “drew the line,” 
she said, “ at dancing with the grocer,” so a few of the gen- 
tlemen went alone. There was a good deal of amusement 
among them as they drove down in the waggonette, on the 
subject of the partners, they might reasonably expect ; and 
it was with no small pride that the Sahib introduced them 
to Doris and Mona. 

Mona wore the gown in which Lucy had said she looked 
like an empress. It was not suitable for dancing, but she 
did not mean to dance ; and certainly she in her rich velvet, 
and Doris in her shimmering silk, were a wondrous contrast 
to most of the showily dressed matrons and gauzy girls. 

Doris as usual was very soon the quiet little centre of an 


THE BALL. 


279 


admiring group, and even Mona, who had come solely to 
look on, and to enjoy a short chat with the Sahib, received 
an amount of attention that positively startled her when she 
thought of hei “ false position.” 

Of course she was pleased. It seemed like a fairy tale, 
that almost within a mile of the shop she should be received 
so naturally as a lady and a woman of the world ; but, in 
point of fact, the Cooksons and Mrs. Ewing were the only 
people who knew that she was Miss Simpson’s assistant. 
Her regular clientele was of too humble a class socially to be 
represented at the ball ; her acquaintances in the neighbour- 
hood were limited almost entirely to Rachel’s friends and 
the members of the Baptist Chapel, — two sections of the 
community which were not at all likely to give support to 
such a festivity ; and even people who had seen her repeat- 
edly in her everyday surroundings, failed to recognise her 
in this handsome woman who had come to the ball with a 
very select party from St. Rules. 

Matilda glowed with triumph as she watched her friend 
move in a sphere altogether above her own ; she longed to 
proclaim to every one how she had known all the time that 
Miss Maclean was a princess in disguise. How aghast 
Clarinda would be at her own stupidit}', and with what 
shame she would recall her pointless sarcasms — Clarinda, 
who that very evening had said, she at least gave the shop- 
girl the credit of believing that the lace was imitation and 
the pearls false ! 

The night was wearing on, and Mona was sitting out a 
gallop with Captain Steele, a handsome middle-aged man, 
whom the Sahib had introduced to her. They were con- 
versing in a gay frivolous strain, and Mona was reflecting 
how much easier it is to be entertaining in the evening if 
one has not been studying hard all day. 

“ Are you expecting any one ? ” asked the Captain, sud- 
denly. 

“ Ho ; why do you ask ? ” 

“ You look up so eagerly whenever a new arrival is 
ushered in.” 

“Do I ? It must be automatic. I scarcely know any 
one here.” 

But she coloured slightly as she spoke. His question 
made her conscious for the first time of a wish away down 


280 


MONA MACLEAN. 


in the depths of her heart — a wish that Dr. Dudley would 
come and see her small success. He had seen her under 
such very different conditions ; he might arrive now any 
day in Borrowness for the Christmas holidays ; why should 
he not be here to-night ? It was surely an innocent little 
wish as wishes go ; but on discovery it was treated igno- 
miniously with speedy and relentless eviction ; and Mona 
gave all the attention she could spare from the Captain’s 
discourse to watching Doris and the Sahib. 

Poor little wish ! Take a regret along with you. You 
were futile and vain, for Dudley had a sufficiently just esti- 
mate of his capabilities to abstain at all times from dancing ; 
and at that moment, with fur cap over his eyes, he was 
sleeping fitfully in the night express ; and yet perhaps you 
were a wise little wish, and how different things might have 
been if you could have been realised ! 

The wish was gone, however, and Mona was watching 
her friends. A woman must he plain indeed if she is not 
to look pretty in becoming evening dress ; and Doris, in her 
soft grey silk, looked like a Christmas rose in the mists of 
winter. She was talking brightly and eagerly, and the 
Sahib was listening with a smile that made his homely face 
altogether delightful. Mona wondered whether in all his 
honest life he had ever looked at any other woman with 
'just that light in his eyes. “ What a lucky man he will be 
who wins my Doris ! ” she said to herself ; and close upon 
that thought came another. “ They say matchmakers are 
apt to defeat their own ends, but if one praises the woman 
to the man, and abuses the man to the woman, one must at 
least be working in the right direction.” 

With a burst of harmony the band began a new waltz. 

“ Our dance, Miss Maclean,” said the Sahib, coming up 
to her. “We are going to wander off to some far-away 
committee-room and swop confidences.” 

“ It sounds nice, but my confidences are depressing.” 

“ So are mine rather. Do you like this part of the 
world ? ” 

“ Do I like myself, in other words? Mot much.” 

“Don’t be philosophical. When all is said, there is 
nothing like gossip. I don't like this part of the world ; in 
fact, I don’t know myself in it ; it is a fast, frivolous, imbe- 
cile world ! ” 


THE BALL. 


281 


“ Socially speaking, I presume, not geographically. At 
least, those are not strictly the adjectives I should apply to 
my surroundings. How come you to be in such a world ? ” 

“ Oh, I met Kirkhope a few years ago. He was indulg- 
, ing in a fashionable run across India, and he ran up against 
me. I was able to put him up to a thing or two, and last 
month when I met him in Edinburgh, he invited me down. 
In a weak moment I accepted his invitation, and now you 
see Fortune has been kinder to me than I deserve.” 

“ I saw you in Edinburgh as I went through one day,” 
said Mona, and she told him she had been disappointed not 
to be able to speak to him at the station. 

“ How very disgusting ! ” he said. “ Yes, Edinburgh is ‘ 
my home — my father’s, at least.” 

“ And had you never met Doris before I introduced you 
to hei ? ” 

The Sahib did not answer for a moment. 

“ I had not been introduced. I had seen her. Hers is 
not a face that one forgets.” 

“ And yet it only gives a hint of all that lies behind it. 
You might travel from Dan to Beersheba without finding 
such a gloriously unselfish woman, and such a perfect child 
of Nature.” 

“ She is delightfully natural and unaffected. I think 
that is her great charm. What sort of man is Colquhoun ? 
Of course every one knows him by name.” 

“ Yes ; he is very near the top of the tree in his profes- 
sion. He is a scientist, too, but in that capacity he is a 
trifle — pathetic. Shall you call when you go back ? ” 

“ I have obtained permission to do so.” 

“ You would do me a personal favour if you would enter 
into his scientific fads a little. Dear loveable old man! 
You will have to laugh in your sleeve pretty audibly before 
he suspects that you are doing it.” 

“ I don’t think I shall feel at all inclined to. Is Miss 
Colquhoun a scientist, too ? ” 

“ She is something better. She loves a dog because it 
is a dog, a worm because it is a worm. Science must stand 
cap in hand before such genuine inborn love of Nature as 
hers.” 

Again there was a pause before the Sahib answered. 
Then he roused himself suddenly. 


282 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ It seems to me, Miss Maclean, that you are shirking 
your part of the bargain. I have confided to you how it is 
I come to be here. It is your innings now.” 

Mona sighed. 

“ When I last saw you, you were a burning and shining 
medical light. Wherefore the bushel ? ” 

“ That is right. Strike hard at the root of my amour 
propre. It is good for me, though I wince. I am here, 
Sahib, mainly because I failed twice in my Intermediate 
Medicine examination.” 

Another of the Sahib’s characteristic pauses. 

“ How on earth did you contrive to do it ? ” he asked at 
last. “ When one sees the duffers of men that pass — ” 

The colour on Mona’s cheek deepened. “ I don’t think 
a very large proportion of duffers pass the London Univer- 
sity medical examinations,” she said. “ Of course one 
makes excuses for one’s self. One began hospital work too 
soon ; one’s knowledge was on a plane altogether above the 
level of the examination papers, &c. It is only in moments 
of rare and exceptional honesty that one says, as I say to you 
now, 4 1 failed because I was a duffer, and did not know my 
work.’ ” 

“ Nay, you don’t catch me with chaff. That is not the 
truth, and you don’t think it is. I don’t call that honesty ! ” 

But although the Sahib spoke harshly, his heart was 
beating very warmly towards her just then. He had always 
considered Mona a clever and charming girl — a little too 
independent, perhaps, but her habitual independence made it 
the more delightful to see her submitting like a child to his 
questions, holding herself bound apparently for the moment 
to answer honestly without fencing, however much the 
effort might cost her. 

“ It is the truth, and nothing but the truth,” she said. 
“ I venture sometimes to think it is not the whole truth.” 

“ Shall you go in again ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“When?” 

“ July.” 

“ Do you think you will pass? ” 

« No.” 

“ Then why do you do it ! ” 

“ I have promised.” 


THE BALL. 283 

Another long pause, and then it came unpremeditatedly 
with a rush. 

“ Look here, Miss Maclean, chuck the whole thing, and 
come back to India with me.” 

It was so absolutely unexpected, that for a moment Mona 
thought it was a joke. “ That would be a delightfully sim- 
ple way of cutting the knot of the difficulty,” she said gaily, 
but before her sentence was finished she saw what he meant. 
She tried not to see it, not to show that she saw it, but the 
blood rushed over her face and betrayed her. 

“Do come,” he said. “Will you? I never cared for 
any woman as I care for you.” 

“ Oh, Sahib,” said Mona, “ we cared for each other, but 
not in that way. You have taught me all I have missed in 
not having a brother.” 

She was not sorry for him ; she was intensely annoyed at 
his stupidity. Not for a moment did it occur to her that he 
might really love her. He liked her, of course, admired her, 
sympathised with her, at the present moment pitied her; 
but did he really suppose that a woman might not gladly 
accept his friendship, admiration, sympathy, even his pity, 
without wishing to have it all translated into the vulgar 
tangible coin of an offer of marriage ? Was marriage for a 
woman, like money for a beggar, the sole standard by which 
all good feeling was to be tried ? 

She was not altogether at fault in her reading of his 
mind. The Sahib’s sister Lena was engaged to be married, 
and he had started on his furlough with a vague general 
idea that if he could fall in love and take a wife back with 
him to India, it would be a very desirable thing. Such an 
idea is as good a preventive to falling in love as any that 
could be devised. 

Among the girls he had met, Miss Maclean was undoubt- 
edly facile princeps. In many respects she was cut out for 
the position; she was one of those women who acquire a 
lighter hand in conversation as they grow older, and who go 
on mellowing to a rich matronly maturity. In Anglo-Indian 
society she would be something entirely new, and three 
months in her own drawing-room would make a brilliant 
woman of her. 

During all the autumn months, while he was shooting in 
Scotland, the Sahib had delighted in the thought that he 


284 


MONA MACLEAN. 


was deliberately keeping away from her, and had delighted 
still more in the prospect of going “ all by himself ” to call 
upon her in London, to see whether the old impressions 
would be renewed in their full force. He had been bitterly 
angry and disappointed when he failed to find her at Gower 
Street, but the failure had gone very far to convince him 
that he really did love her. 

And now had come this curious unexpected meeting at 
Kirkstoun. “ Do you see that — person in the fur cloak ? ” 
Mona had said to him when he had dropped in for half an 
hour on the third day of the bazaar. “ Don’t be alarmed ; 
I don’t mean to introduce you ; but that is my cousin. Now 
you know all that I can tell you.” His momentary start 
and look of incredulity had not been lost upon her ; but he 
had recovered himself in an instant, and had shown suffi- 
cient sense not to attempt any remark. And in truth, al- 
though he had been surprised and shocked, he had not been 
greatly distressed. “ After all,” he had said, “ anybody could 
rake up a disreputable forty-second cousin from some ash- 
heap or other ; ” and the existence of such a person, together 
with Mona’s breakdown in her medical career, gave him a 
pleasauc, though unacknowledged, sense of being the knight 
in the fairy tale who is to deliver the captive princess from 
all her woes. Moreover, Mona’s peculiar circumstances had 
brought about an intimacy between them that might other- 
wise have been impossible. He had been admitted into one 
of the less-frequented chambers of her nature, and he said 
to himself that it was a goodly chamber. It was pleasant 
to see the colour rise into her checks, to hear her breath 

come quick while she talked to him ; and to-night to-night 

she looked very beautiful, and no shade of doubt was left on 
his mind that he loved her. 

“ I suppose you are the best judge of your feelings to- 
wards me,” he said coldly ; “ but you will allow me to answer 
for mine.” 

The Sahib was a good man, and a simple-hearted, but 
he knew his own value, and it would have been strange if 
Mona’s reply had not surprised him. In fact he could only 
account for it on one supposition, and that supposition 
made him very angry and indignant. His next words were 
natural, if unpardonable. Perhaps Mona’s frankness was 
spoiling him. 


THE BALL. 


285 


“ Tell me,” he said sharply, “ in the old Norway days, 
when we saw so much of each other, was there some one 
else then ? ” 

Mona drew herself up. “ I do call that an insult,” she 
said quietly. “ Do you suppose that every unmarried woman 
is standing in the market-place waiting for a husband ? Is 
it impossible that a woman may prefer to remain unmarried 
for the sake of all the work in the world that only an un- 
married woman can do ? ” 

The Sahib’s face brightened visibly for a moment. Per- 
haps it was true, after all, that this clever woman was more 
of a child in some respects than half the flimsy damsels in 
the ballroom. 

“Miss Maclean,” he said, “ bear with my dulness, and 
say to me these five words, ‘ There is no one else.’ ” 

Mona lifted her honest eyes. 

“ There is no one else,” she said simply. 

“ Thank you. Then if my sole rival is the work that 
only an unmarried woman can do, I decline to accept your 
answer.” 

“ Don’t be foolish, Mr. Dickinson,” said Mona gently. 
“ You call me honest, and in this respect I am absolutely 
honest. If there were the faintest shadow of a doubt in 
my mind I would tell you. There are very few people in 
the world whom I like and trust as I do you, but I would 
as soon think of marrying Sir Douglas Munro. And you — 
you are sacrificing yourself to your own chivalry. You 
want to marry me because you are sorry for me, because I 
have muddled my own life.” 

“ That is not true. My one objection to you is that you 
are twice the man that I am.” 

Mona laughed. “ Eh lien! Vun n' empeche pas V autre. 
No, no ; you are much too good a man to be thrown away 
on a woman who only likes and trusts you.” 

“ When do you leave this place ? ” he asked doggedly. 

“ In March.” 

“ And do you stop in Edinburgh on the way ? ” 

“Yes; I have promised to spend a week with the Col- 
quhouns.” 

“ Good. I will ask you then again.” 

“ Dear Sahib,” said Mona earnestly, “ I have not spoilt 
your life yet. Don’t let me begin to spoil it now. You 


286 


MONA MACLEAN. 


cannot afford to waste even three months over a chivalrous 
fancy. Put me out of your mind altogether, till you have 
married a bright young thing full of enthusiasms, not a 
worn-out old cynic like me. Then by-and-by, if she will let 
me be her sister, you and I can be brother and sister again.” 

“ May I write to you during the next two months? ” 

“ I think it would be a great mistake.” 

“ Your will shall be law. But remember, I shall be 
thinking of you constantly, and when you are in Edin- 
burgh I will come. Shall we go back to the ballroom ? ” 
He rose and offered her his arm. 

“ Mr. Dickinson, I absolutely refuse to leave the question 
open. What is the use ? ” 

“ You will not do even that for me?” 

“ It would be returning evil for good.” 

“No matter. The results be on my own head ! ” 

They were back in the noise and glare of the ballroom, 
and further conversation was impossible. 

“ Who would have thought of meeting two charming 
emancipees down here ? ” said Captain Steele, as the men 
drove back to the Towers. 

“If all emancipees are like Miss Colquhoun,” said a 
young man with red hair and a retreating chin, “ I will get 
a book and go round canvassing for women’s rights to- 
morrow ! ” 


CHAPTER XL. 

A LOCUM TEHENS. 

The excitement was over, and every one was suffering 
from a profound reaction. Rachel’s cold was no better, and 
her temper was decidedly worse ; for although the sermons 
still lay on her table, both they and the illness that had 
brought them into requisition had lost the charm of novel- 
ty. However — like the ravages of drink in relation to the 
efforts of temperance reformers — it was of course impossible 
to say how much worse she might have been without them. 


A LOCUM TENENS. 


287 


Mona had by no means escaped the general depression 
consequent on the bazaar and the ball, and her cousin’s 
querulousness was a heavy strain upon her endurance. For- 
tunately, it had the effect of putting her on her mettle. “ I 
am certainly not fit to be a doctor,” she thought, “ if I can- 
not bear and forbear in a simple little case like this.” So 
she went from shop to parlour, and from parlour to shop, 
with a light step and a cheerful face, striving hard to keep 
Rachel supplied with scraps of gossip that would amuse her 
without tempting her to talk. 

“ Mrs. Smith has come to enquire for you,” she said, as 
she entered the close little sitting-room. “Do you think 
you ought to see her? You know you made your chest 
worse by talking to Mrs. Anderson the other day.” 

“And how am I to get well, I should like to know, 
mope, mope, moping all by myself from morning till night? 
All these blessed days I’ve sat here, while other folks were 
gallivanting about taking their pleasure. It’s easy for you 
to say, 4 Don’t see her,’ after all the ploy you’ve been having, 
and all the folk you are seeing in the shop to-day.” 

“Very well, I will bring her up; but do you let her 
talk, and save your voice as much as you can.” 

The interview was a long one, but it did not appear to 
have the desired effect of improving Rachel’s spirits. 

“ Upon my word,” she said when the visitor had gone, 
“ I never knew anybody so close as you are. One would 
think, after all the pleasure you’ve been having, while I’ve 
been cooped up in the house, that you’d be glad to tell me 
any bit of news.” 

“ Why, cousin,” laughed Mona, 44 what else have I been 
doing ? I have even told you what everybody wore ! ” 

44 The like of that ! ” said Rachel scornfully ; 44 and you 
never told me you got the word of her ladyship ? I won- 
der what Mrs. Smith would think of me knowing nothing 
about it ? ” 

Mona was puzzled for a moment. 44 Oh,” she said sud- 
denly, 44 Lady Kirkhope ! She only said a few words to 
me.” 

44 And how many would she say — the like of her to the 
like of you ! I suppose you think because your mother’s 
sister is married on a Sir, that their ladyships are as com- 
mon as gooseberries. Much your mother’s sister has done 


288 


MONA MACLEAN. 


for you — leaving you to take all sorts of maggots into your 
head ! But I’ve no doubt you think a sight more of her 
than you do of me, for all the time you’ve been with me.” 

This was the first time the Munros had been mentioned 
between the cousins, and Mona was not anxious to pursue 
the subject. “ Your mother’s sister married on a Sir.” Oh, 
the sordidness of it ! 

Mona had refused to see the Sahib again during his stay 
at the Towers, and although she could not for a moment 
regret her refusal, she was conscious of a distinct sense of 
emptiness in her life. There was no doubt that for the 
moment she had lost her friend ; and perhaps things might 
never again be as they had been before his clumsy and lam- 
entable mistake. But although he was lost to her direct- 
ly, she was only now beginning to possess him through 
Doris. 

“ He will see her constantly for the next two months,” 
she thought, “ and he cannot but love her. He loves her 
now, if he only knew it. It is absurd to suppose that he 
ever looked at me with that light in his eyes. He analyses 
me, and admires me deliberately, but Doris bowls him over. 
Whether she will care for him, is another question ; but I 
am sure he at least possesses the prime merit in her eyes of 
being a Sir Galahad; and by the doctrine of averages, a 
magnificent son of Anak like that cannot be refused by two 
sensible women within the space of two months. He will 
consider himself bound to me of course, but he will fall in 
love with her all the faster for that ; and at the appointed 
time he will duly present himself in much fear and trem- 
bling lest I should take him at his word. How amusing it 
will be ! ” And a cold little ray of sunshine stole across the 
chill grey mists of her life. 

That day Rachel’s appetite failed for the first time. 
Her face was more flushed than usual, and her moist, flabby 
hands became dry and hot. In some uneasiness Mona pro- 
duced her clinical themometer, and found that her cousin’s 
temperature had run up to 102°. 

“ You are a little feverish, dear,” she said, lightly. “ I 
don’t think it is going to be anything serious, but it will be 
wise to go to bed and let me fetch the doctor. Shall I send 
Sally, or go myself ? ” 

“ Send Sally,” was the prompt reply, “ and let him find 


A LOCUM TENENS. 


289 


out for himself that I am feverish. Don’t tell him anything 
about that machine of yours. He’d think it wasn’t canny 
for the like of you.” 

“ I will do as you please, of course ; but lots of people 
have thermometers now, who know no more of medicine — 
than that spoon. Not but what the spoon’s experience of 
the subject has been both varied and profound ! ” she added, 
smiling, as she remembered Rachel’s love for domestic thera- 
peutics. 

Rachel smiled, too, at the feeble little joke. The knowl- 
edge that she was really ill had improved her spirits won- 
derfully, partly by gratifying her sense of self-importance, 
and partly by making the occasion seem worthy of the 
manifestation of a little practical Christianity. 

It was evening when the doctor arrived, and then, of 
course, he could say but little. Milk diet, a cooling 
draught, no visitors, and patience. He would call about 
noon the next day. 

“ I fear you are as much in need of rest and care as my 
cousin is,” said Mona, when a fit of coughing interrupted 
his final directions to her at the door. 

“ I am fairly run off my feet,” he said. “ I have had a 
lot of night- work, and now this bout of frivolity has given 
me a crop of bronchial attacks and nervous headaches. I 
have got a friend to take my work for a fortnight, but he 
can’t come for a week or ten days yet. I must just rub 
along somehow in the meantime. A good sharp frost would 
do us all good ; this damp weather is perfectly killing.”^ 

As if in answer to his wish, the frost came that night 
with a will. In the morning Mona found a tropical forest 
on her window-panes ; and in a moment up ran the curtains 
of the invisible. The shop and the dingy house fell into 
their true perspective, and she felt herself a sentient human 
being — dowered with the glorious privilege of living. 

Rachel was no better, and as soon as Mona had made 
her patient and the room as neat and fresh as circumstances 
would allow, she set out to do the marketing. “ Send Sally,” 
Rachel said; but customers never came before ten, and 
Mona considered it the very acme of squalor to leave that 
part of the housekeeping to chance, in the shape of a 
thriftless, fusionless maid-of-all-work. She walked quickly 
through the sharp frosty air, and came in with a sprinkle 
19 


290 


MONA MACLEAN. 


of snow on her dark fluffy fur, and a face like a half-blown 
rose. 

“ The doctor has just gone up-stairs,” whispered Sally, 
and Mona hastened up to find, not Dr. Burns, but Dr. Dud- 
ley. She was too much taken by surprise to conceal the 
pleasure she felt, and, much as Dudley had counted on this 
meeting, his brain wellnigh reeled under the exquisite un- 
conscious flattery of her smile. It was a minute before he 
could control himself sufficiently to speak. 

“ I am afraid Dr. Burns is ill,” said Mona, as she took 
his hand. 

“Yes, poor fellow! He is very much below par alto- 
gether, and he has taken a serious chill, which has settled 
on his lungs. I fear it will be some time before he is about 
again. A substitute will be here in a week, I hope ; and in 
the meantime, nolens volens , I am thrust into the service. 
Thank you, Miss Simpson, that will do, I think.” He took 
the thermometer to the light, and then gave Mona a few 
directions. “ You have not got one of these things, I sup- 
pose ? ” he said. 

“ I never even had one in my hand,” put in Kachel 
hastily. 

“ You know you can easily get one,” added Mona se- 
verely. 

“ Oh, it’s of no consequence. I think there is no doubt 
that this is only a feverish cold. I wish I had no more seri- 
ous case. Go on with the mixture, but I should like Miss 
Simpson to take some quinine as well. I have no doubt 
she will be about again in a few days.” 

He wrote a prescription — very unnecessarily, Mona 
thought,— -and then she followed him down-stairs. When 
they reached the shop he deliberately stopped, and turned 
to face her. He did not speak ; his mind was in a whirl. 
He was thinking no longer of the beauty of her mind, and 
character, and face ; he had ceased even to admire. He 
only knew that he wanted her, that he had found her out, 
that she was his by right; every other thought and feeling 
was merged in the consciousness that he was alone with the 
woman he loved. Oh, how good it was to lose one’s self at 
last in a longing like this ! 

His back was turned to the light, and Mona wondered 
why her “ playfellow ” was so silent. 


A LOCUM TENENS. 


291 


“ This is an unfortunate holiday for you,” she said. 

He shook himself out of his dream, and answered gaily, 
“ Oh, I don’t know. This sort of thing is a rest in one way 
at least, — it does not call the same brain-cells into requisi- 
tion, and it gives me a little anticipation of the manhood 
my cursed folly has postponed.” 

Of course the humble words were spoken very proudly ; 
and he looked every inch a man even to eyes that still re- 
tained a vivid picture of the Sahib. His shoulders seemed 
more broad and strong in the heavy becoming Inverness 
cape, he held himself more upright than formerly, and his 
face had gained an expression of quiet self-confidence. 

“ Work suits you,” said Mona, smiling. 

“ That it does ! ” He brought his closed fist vehemently 
down upon the counter. “ When my examination is over, 
Miss Maclean, I shall be a different being, — in a position to 
do and say things that I dare not do and say now.” 

He spoke with emphasis, half hoping she would under- 
stand him, and then broke off with sudden bitterness — 

“ Unless I fail!” 

“ You fail ! ” laughed Mona. 

“Ah, so outsiders always say. I can assure you, you 
have no idea how chancy those London examinations are.” 

The colour rushed into her face. A dozen times she 
had tried to ask Rachel’s permission to tell him all ; a dozen 
times the question “ Why him rather than any one else ? ” 
had sealed her lips. What if she were to make a clean 
breast of it now, and risk her cousin’s anger afterwards ? 
She could never hope for such another opportunity. 

She was determined to use it, to tell him she knew the 
chances of those examinations only too well ; but to her 
surprise she found the confession far more difficult than the 
one she had made to the Sahib. At the very thought of it, 
her heart beat hard and her breath came fast. 

“ This is too absurd ! ” she thought, in fierce indigna- 
tion at her own weakness. “ What do I care what he 
thinks? But if I cannot speak without panting as if I 
were trying to turn a mill, I must hold my peace. It is of 
little consequence, after all, whether he knows or not.” 

“ Do you know,” said Dudley deliberately, “ I thought 
for a moment that I had come into the wrong house this 
morning ? I never should have recognised your — quarters.” 


292 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Did you notice the difference ? You must have a 
quick eye and a good memory.” 

Notice the difference ! He had noticed few things in 
the last six months that had given him half the pleasure of 
that sweeping reformation. Dudley was no giant among 
men ; but, if he cared for name and outward appearance, at S 
least he cared more for reality ; and, I think, the sight of > 
that fresh, business-like, creditable shop was a greater com- 
fort to his mind than it would have been to see his Cin- 
derella at the ball. He had ceased to regret that Mona was 
a shopkeeper, but he was not too much in love to be glad 
that she was a good shopkeeper. 

“ I knew your influence was bound to tell in the long- 
run,” he said. “ I suppose Miss Simpson did not greatly 
encourage you to interfere ? ” 

“ No, but she has been very good. I don’t believe I 
should have left an assistant as free a hand as she left me. 

I hope you admire my window. I call it a work of art.” 

“ I call it something a great deal better than that,” he 
said rather huskily, as he held out his hand. “ Good-morn- 
ing.” 

“ Bless her !” he said to himself as he jumped into his - 
gig. “ She never apologises for the shop — never speaks as 
if it were something beneath her. My God, what a snob 
I am ! ” 

As soon as he was gone, Mona raised the hand he had 
shaken, and looked at it deliberately. Then she took a few 
turns up and down the shop. “ I never mean to marry,” 
she said very slowly to herself, “ and I don’t suppose I shall 
ever know what it is to be in love ; but it would be a fine ^ 
test of a man’s sincerity to see whether he would be willing f 
to take me simply and solely as I am now — as Rachel Simp- 
son’s assistant.” 

The next day was Sunday, and Rachel was so much bet- 
ter that she insisted on Mona’s going to church. 

“ Folk will be thinking it is something catching,” she 
said, “ and, by the time I’m down-stairs again, there’ll be 
nobody in the shop to talk to.” 

It was a bright, crisp morning, but Mona found the 1 
service rather a barren one. 

“I suppose the doctor has been here,” she said with 
marked indifference, when she re-entered Rachel’s room. 


A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 


293 


“ Yes, and very pleased he was to find me so well. He 
says I’m to get up to tea to-day, and go out for ten minutes 
to-morrow, if all’s well. He is very busy, and he’s not to 
come back unless we send for him. He’s not one of them 
that tries how many visits they can put in.” 

“ Ho,” said Mona drearily, and then she roused herself 
with an effort. “ I am so glad you are better, dear,” she 
said. “ Mr. Stuart is coming to see you to-morrow after- 
noon.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 

When Hew Year’s Day came round, the little household 
had fallen back into its ordinary routine. Mona had deco- 
rated the parlour with evergreens, before Rachel left her 
sick-room ; had superintended divers important proceedings 
in the kitchen ; and had done her best to feel, and to make 
others feel, the festive influence of the season. The attempt 
had not been a very successful one, however ; Rachel was at 
no time susceptible to the poetry of domestic life ; and when 
dim visions rose in Mona’s mind of giving a treat to her 
protegees , or to the Sunday-school children, she forced her- 
self to remember that she was only a humble shopkeeper, 
bound to keep within the limits of her role. For one night 
she had played a more important part, but that was over 
now. She was back in her humble sphere, and, for very 
art’s sake, she must keep her true proportion till the end. 
Fortunately, she was asked to assist in the management of 
one or two “ treats,” and by means of these and a few anony- 
mous contributions to local charities she — to use an expres- 
sion of her own — “ saved her soul alive.” She looked for no 
selfish enjoyment, she told herself. Auntie Bell was the 
only human thing in the neighbourhood whom, for her own 
sake, she really cared to see ; Auntie Bell — and perhaps one 
other ; but, although Mona often saw the doctor’s gig in 
those days, she never chanced to meet the doctor. 

A Hew Year dinner is not a very cheerful festivity in 


294 


MONA MACLEAN. 


a somewhat uncongenial solitude a deux , and Mona was not 
sorry when an invitation came for Rachel to drink tea 
with a crony in the evening. She herself was included 
in the invitation, but had no difficulty in getting out of 
it. She was popular, on the whole, among Rachel’s friends, 
but there was a general consensus of opinion among them 
that, when it came to a regular gossip over the fire, Miss 
Maclean, with all her cleverness, was a sad wet-blanket. 
Sally had been promised a half -holiday, and Rachel had 
some compunction about leaving her cousin alone, but 
Mona laughed at the idea. 

“The arrangement suits me quite as well as it does 
you,” she said ; “I am going to take some of my mince- 
pies to old Jenny, and I have no doubt she will give me 
a cup of tea. She has been on my mind all day. It is 
glorious weather for a walk, and I shall have a full moon 
to light me home.” 

And in truth it was a glorious day for a w r alk. The 
thermometer had fallen abruptly after a heavy mist, and 
the great stretch of fields was perfectly white with the 
deepest hoar-frost Mona had ever seen. From every stone 
in the dyke, every blade of grass by the wayside, every 
hardy scrap of moss and lichen, the most exquisite ice- 
needles stood out in wonderful coruscations, sparkling and 
blazing in the slanting rays of the afternoon sun ; a huge 
spider’s web in the window of an old barn looked like 
some marvellous piece of fairy lace-work ; the cart-ruts in 
the more deserted roads were spanned by tiny rafters of ice ; 
and above all, the moon, modest and retiring as yet, looked 
down from an infinitely distant expanse of pale cloudless sky. 

Very slowly the sun sank below the horizon, and the 
moon asserted herself more and more; till, when Mona 
reached the pine-wood, the mystic, unearthly beauty of the 
scene brought the actual tears into her eyes. The silence 
was broken only by sounds that served to gauge its depth ; 
the recesses of the wood were as gloomy and mysterious 
as ever; but the moonlight streamed down on graceful 
tops and spreading branches, not burdened with massive 
whiteness, but transformed into crystal. A pine -wood in 
snow is a sight to be seen, but the work of the snow is 
only a daub, after all, when compared with the artist touch 
of a frost like this. 


A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 


295 


Mona scarcely knew liow long she stood there, unwill- 
ing even to lean against the gate and so destroy its per- 
fect bloom; but she was disturbed at last by the sound 
of wheels on the carriage-drive. Had the Colonel come 
back? Was Jenny ill? And then with a quick flash of 
conviction she knew whom she was going to see. 

It was Dudley, leading his horse by the bridle, and 
looking worn and anxious. He brightened up and quick- 
ened his step, when he saw a woman’s figure at the gate ; 
then recognised who it was, and stopped short, with some- 
thing like a groan. Poor Dudley ! A moment before he 
would have given almost anything he possessed for the 
presence of a female human creature, and now that his 
prayer was granted, how he wished that it had been any 
other woman in the world than just this one whom the 
Fates had sent ! 

He had no choice, however, and he plunged into the mat- 
ter at once, with white lips, but with a quick, resolute voice. 

“ I am in a sore dilemma, Miss Maclean,” he said. u I 
was sent for suddenly up country to a case of arsenical 
poisoning ; and, as I went past, they stopped me at those 
cottar-houses to tell me that there was a poor soul in ex- 
tremity here. It’s your little Maggie, by the way. Poor 
child! She may well ask herself whether life is worth 
living now ! Of course I had to go on to my man, but I 
left him before I really ought to have done so, and now I 
must hurry back. The baby is just born.” 

“ Is Jenny here ? ” Mona found it difficult to speak at 
all in the deafening rush of sorrow and bitterness that came 

over her. , . 

“ Jenny is away to Leith. Her brother’s ship has just 
come in. The girl came home unexpectedly, and had to get 
the key of the house at the cottage. Everybody is down in 
the town celebrating the Hew Year, except a few infants, 
and an infirm old man, who noticed that she was ill and 
hailed me. Will you go in? There is no fire, nor comfort 
of any sort for the poor child. It is no work for you—” 

Mona looked up with a curious light in her eyes. 

“ You don’t really mean that,” she said quietly. “ If 
there were only a duchess on the road to-night, it would be 
her work. I suppose I may run to the cottage for some 
milk ? I expect Maggie has eaten nothing all day.” 


296 


MONA MACLEAN. 


His lips quivered slightly, in the relief of finding how 
simply she took it. 

“ God bless you,” he said, as he took the reins. “ I be- 
lieve the girl will do well. I will be back as soon as I pos- 
sibly can, and I will send the first woman I meet to your 
relief.” 

“Mo, you won’t,” she said gently. “I would rather 
stay all night than have a woman here of whom I knew 
nothing. Go on ! Good speed to your case.” 

She fetched the milk, and then ran like the wind to the 
house. It was a lonely place at the best of times, and now 
it seemed bleak and damp and dreary, — a fitting home for 
the jftor little singed human butterfly, who, in the hour of 
her agony, had taken refuge within its walls. 

Mona was thankful there was so much to do, for her in- 
dignation burned like fire at the sight of that altered, 
chubby face. All honour to the stern and noble women 
who, by the severity of their views, have done so much to 
preserve the purity of their sex ; but let us be thankful, too, 
of those who, like Mona, in time of need lose sight of the 
sinning woman in the injured suffering child. 

In a very short time a bright fire was blazing in the 
grate ; the bed had been arranged as comfortably as might 
be, and Mona was holding a cup of hot milk to the lips of 
the half-starved girl. Only an invalid knows the relief of 
having some one in the sick-room who, without fuss or 
questioning, quietly takes the helm of affairs ; and poor 
little Maggie looked up at her comforter with the eyes of a 
hunted animal, which, bruised and bleeding, finds that it 
has run by chance into a haven of rest. 

For some time Mona doubted whether the baby would 
live till Dr. Dudley’s return. It was such a puny little 
thing — a poor morsel of humanity, thrust prematurely into 
a cold and busy world that had no need of him. “ He had 
better have died ! ” thought Mona, as she did all that in her 
lay to keep him in life ; and, in truth, I know not whether 
the woman or the doctor in her rejoiced more truly when 
she saw that all immediate danger was past. 

All was peaceful, and Maggie, with the tears undried on 
her long eyelashes, had fallen asleep when Dudley came 
back. 

“ I don’t know how to apologise for being so long away,” 


A SINGED BUTTERFLY. 


297 


lie said in a low voice. “ Talk of Scylla and Charybdis ! ” 
He asked a few simple questions, and then, leading the way 
into the kitchen, he pushed forward the shabby old arm- 
chair for her, and seated himself on the corner of the table. 

“ I am afraid you are very tired,” he said. 

“ Oh no !” 

“ You are reserving that for to-morrow ? ” 

He would have liked to feel her pulse, both as a matter 
of personal and of scientific interest, but he did not dare. 

“ I wonder what poor little Maggie and I would have 
done without you to-night,” he said. “ As it is, I have had 
a close shave with my man. I found him a good deal 
collapsed when I went back, — cold and clammy, with blue 
lines round his eyes.” 

“ What did you do ? ” said Mona eagerly, with a student’s 
interest. 

“ You may well ask. One’s text-books always fail one 
just at the point that offers a real difficulty in practice. 
They tell you how to get rid of and neutralise the poison ; 
they overwhelm you with Marsh’s and Reinsch’s tests ; but 
how to keep the patient alive, — that is a mere detail. Hot 
bottles were safe, of course, and c in the right direction.’ I 
was afraid to give stimulants, in case I should promote the 
absorption of any eddies of the poison, but finally I had to 
chance a little whisky-and-water, and that brought him 
round. I was very ill at ease about leaving you so long, but 
I thought some married woman from the cottar-houses 
would have been here before this.” 

“ They won’t come,” said Mona. “ I gave the old man 
a sovereign to hold his peace.” And then she bit her lip, 
remembering that Miss Simpson’s shop-girl could scarcely 
be supposed to have sovereigns to spare. 

Dudley smiled, — a half-amused but very kindly smile, 
that reflected itself in a moment in Mona’s face. 

“Do you think it was foolish ? ” she asked simply. 

“ God forbid that I should criticise a woman’s instinct 
in such a matter ! With my powers of persuasion, I might 
as well have tried to hush up the death of a prince. I have 
long since decided that if I don’t want people to talk about 
a thing, the best plan is to advertise it at once, then turn 
up the collar of my coat, fold my arms, and — thole.” 

“ That is all very well when only one’s self is concerned, 


298 


MONA MACLEAN. 


but, by the time Jenny came back, no choice would have 
been left her.” 

“ True. I might have known all along that you were 
right. It will be worth more than a sovereign to be able to 
tell Jenny that no one knows. And if she comes soon, the 
statement will do for the truth. Heigh-ho ! do you know, 

I could throw my cap in the air, and hurrah like a school- 
boy, when I think that my man has pulled through. A 
poisoning case is no joke, I can tell you ; all hurry and con- 
fusion and uncertainty, with the prospect of a legal inquiry 
at the end of it. ‘ Do you mean to say, sir,’ — Dudley ad- 
justed an imaginary wig and weighed an imaginary eyeglass, 

— ‘ that with a man’s life at stake, you did so and so ? ’ 
Ugh ! who says a doctor’s fees are easily earned ? It would 
take many a jog-trot dyspepsia or liver complaint to restore i 
the balance after that ! ” 

“ I am quite sure of it ; and now I advise you to go 
home and get a night’s rest if you can.” 

“But what am I to do about you? You don’t suppose 
I am going to sleep the sleep of the unjust and leave you 
here ? ” 

“ That is precisely what you are going to do. An hour’s 
forced march will do me no harm ; you have had no lack of j 
them lately. I will ask you to leave this note for my cousin, 
and if you have no objection, I think you might ask Jenny’s 
friend, Mrs. Arnot, — you know who I mean, — to come up 
to-morrow morning. She is absolutely safe. Tell her to 
wait till the shops are open, and bring me the things I have 
jotted down here.” 

Maggie was awake by this time, and Dudley paid her a 
short visit before he left. The poor girl thought the gentle- 
man very kind, but she was thankful when he was gone, and 
she was alone once more with Mona. 

“ I will tell you all how it was,” she sobbed out convul- 
sively. 

“ Not to-night, dear,” Mona said quietly, stroking the 
thick brown hair. “ When you are a little stronger, you 
shall tell me the whole story. To-night you must be quite 
still and rest. I will take care of you.” 

It was a strange experience to sit there through the long 
hours, listening to the regular breathing of "the young 
mother, the steady tick of the clock, and the occasional fall 


QUESTIONINGS. 


299 


of a cinder from the grate. It seemed so incredible that 
this girl, — this butterfly, — had passed already, all frivolous 
and unprepared, through that tract of country which, to 
each fresh traveller, is only less new and mysterious than 
the river of death. A few months before, Mona had felt so 
old and wise, compared to that ignorant child ; and now a 
great gulf of experience and of sorrow lay between them, and 
the child was on the farther side. 

More and more heavily the burden of the sorrows of her 
sex pressed on Mona’s heart as the night went on ; more 
and more she longed to carry all suffering women in her 
arms ; more and more she felt her unworthiness for the life- 
work she had chosen, till at last, half unconsciously, she fell 
on her knees and her thoughts took the form of a prayer. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

QUESTIONINGS. 

When Mona first began her medical career, she was ac- 
tuated partly by intense love of study and scientific work, 
partly by a firm and enthusiastic conviction that, while the 
fitness of women for certain spheres of usefulness is an 
open question, medical work is the natural right and duty 
of the sex, apart from all shifting standards and conven- 
tional views. Her repeated failure “ took the starch out of 
her,” as she expressed it, but I do not think that she ever 
for more than a moment seriously thought of giving up the 
work, when she laid it aside for a time ; and her promise to 
Mr. Reynolds was made, less out of gratitude to him than 
from a stern sense of duty. But now the cold hard lines of 
duty were broken through by the growing developing force 
of a living inspiration. We need many fresh initiations 
into a life-work that is really to move mankind, and Mona 
underwent one that night at Barntoun Wood, hundreds of 
miles away from the scene of her studies, with the silvered 
pines for a temple, the lonely house for a holy place, and a 
shrine of sin and sorrow. “ Inasmuch as ye have done it 


300 


MONA MACLEAN. 


unto one of the least of these — ” Who shall tell beforehand 
what events will form the epochs, or the turning-points, in 
the life of any one of us? Verily the wind bloweth where 
it listeth. 

The night was over, and the morning sun was once 
more kindling all the ice crystals into sparkles of light, 
when Mrs. Arnot arrived — kind and motherly, but of course 
inexpressibly shocked. Mona conjured her not to have any 
conversation about the past that might agitate the patient ; 
and then set out for home, promising to return before night. 
The ready tears welled up in Maggie’s eyes as she watched 
her benefactress go ; and then she turned her face to the 
wall and pretended to sleep. If she could only be with Miss 
Maclean always, how easy it would be to be good ; and 
perhaps in time she would even begin to forget — about 
him. 

Since her illness Rachel had been very affectionate to 
her cousin, and Mona was quite unprepared for the torrent 
of indignation that assailed her when she entered the sit- 
ting-room. She had found Maggie ill at the Wood alone, 
she said, and almost in a moment Rachel guessed what had 
happened. 

For some time Mona tried to discuss the question calm- 
ly, but the cutting, merciless words wounded her more than 
she could bear ; so she rose and took her gloves from the 
table. 

“ That will do, cousin,” she said coldly; 44 but for the ac- 
cident of circumstances it might have been you or I.” 

This of course was a truism, but Rachel could not be 
expected to see it in that light, and the flames of her wrath 
leaped higher. 

44 Jenny can pay for a nurse from Kirkstoun,” she said ; 
44 I’ll not have you waiting hand and foot on a creature no 
decent woman would speak to. You’ll not enter that house 
again.” 

44 I’ve promised to go back this afternoon. Of course 
you have a perfect right, if you like, to forbid me to return 
here. But I am very tired, and I think it would be a pity, 
after all your kindness to me, to send me away with such an 
interpretation as this of the parable of the Good Samaritan. 
Unless you mention the incident, people will never find out 
that I had anything to do with it.” 


QUESTIONINGS. 


301 


She left the room without giving her cousin time to re- 
ply. Before long Sally knocked at her door with a tolera- 
bly inviting breakfast-tray. Poor Rachel ! She had never 
made any attempt to reduce her opinions and convictions 
to common principles, and it was very easy to defeat her 
with a weapon out of her own miscellaneous armoury. She 
was perfectly satisfied that the parable of the Good Samari- 
tan had nothing to do with the case, but the mention of it 
reminded her of other incidents in the Gospel narrative 
which seemed to lend some support to Mona’s position. But 
then things were so different nowadays. Was that wicked 
little minx to be encouraged to hold up her head again as if 
nothing had happened ? 

Not even for Jenny’s sake could Mona stoop to beg her 
cousin to hold her peace, but Rachel had already resolved to 
do this for reasons of her own. She was shrewd enough to 
see that if the incident came out at all at present, it would 
come out in its entirety, and, rather than sacrifice “ her own 
flesh and blood,” she would spare even Maggie — for the 
present. 

About mid-day Dudley arrived at the shop on foot. 

“I thought the friendly Fates would let me find you 
alone,” he said. “ Your patients are thriving famously. I 
came to tell you that Jenny is to arrive at Kirkstoun to- 
night. I know it is asking a hard thing; but it would 
soften matters so for everybody else if you could meet her.” 

“ Thank you so much for coming to tell me. I have 
been very unhappy about her home-coming. I am afraid I 
cannot do much, but I need not say I will do my best. I 
meant to go out this afternoon, but I will wait now, and go 
with Jenny. Poor soul ! it will be an awful blow to her.” 

Dudley was looking at her fixedly. “ Having expressed 
my delight at finding you,” he said, “ I am going to proceed, 
with true masculine inconsistency, to scold you for not tak- 
ing a few hours’ sleep. You look very tired.” 

“ Appearances are deceptive.” 

“ I am afraid Miss Simpson is not pleased with last night’s 
work.” 

She hesitated, then smiled. “ Miss Simpson is not the 
keeper of my conscience.” 

“ Thank God for that at least ! You will not stay for 
more than half an hour to-night ? ” 


302 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I don’t know.” 

“ Mo, Miss Maclean you will not,” he said firmly ; “ I will 
not have it.” 

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “ Bear with my dull- 
ness,” she said, “ and explain to me your precise right to in- 
terfere. Is it the doctor’s place to arrange how long the 
nurses are to remain on duty? I only ask for information, 
you know.” 

“ Yes,” he said boldly, “ it is.” 

“Ah! so it becomes a simple matter of official duty. 
Thank you for explaining it to me.” 

Then suddenly the blood rushed up into her face. “ Oh, 
Dr. Dudley,” she said, impulsively, “ what a brute I am to 
laugh and jest the moment I have turned my back on a 
tragedy like that ! ” 

“ And why ? ” he asked. “ Do not the laughter and jest- 
ing, like the flowers and the sunshine, show that the heart 
of things is not all tragedy? If you and I could not laugh 
a little, in sheer healthy human reaction from too near a 
view of the seamy side of life, I think we should go mad ; 
don’t you ? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, earnestly. 

“ I think it is a great mistake to encourage mere feeling 
beyond the point where it serves as a motive. As we say in 
physiology that the optimum stimulus is the one that pro- 
duces the maximum contraction ; so the optimum feeling 
is not the maximum feeling, but the one that produces the 
maximum of action. Maggie is as safe with you as if she 
had fallen into the hands of her guardian angel. There is 
but little I can do, as the law does not permit us, even un- 
der strong provocation, to wring the necks of our fellow- 
men ; but I will see Jenny to-morrow, and arrange about 
making the fellow contribute to the support of the child. 
Do you think you and I need to be afraid of an innocent 
laugh if it chances to come in our way ? ” 

Dudley spoke simply and naturally, without realising 
how his sympathetic chivalrous words would appeal to a 
woman who loved her own sex. Mona tried to thank him, 
but the words would not come, so with an instinct that was 
half that of a woman, half that of a child, she looked up 
and paid him the compliment of the tears for which she 
blushed. 


MITHER ! 


303 


It was then that Dudley understood for the first time 
all the possibilities of Mona’s beauty, and realised that the 
face of the woman he loved was as potter’s clay in the grasp 
of a beautiful soul. 

He held out his hand without a word, and left the shop. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ MITHER ! ” 


The clear sky was obscured by driving clouds, and the 
night was darkening fast, as Mona walked up and down the 
draughty little station, waiting for the arrival of Jenny’s 
train. The prospect of a long walk across the bleak open 
country, with a heartrending tale to tell on the way, was 
not an inviting one, and Mona had serious thoughts of 
hiring a conveyance ; but that would have been the surest 
method of attracting attention to herself and Jenny, so she 
reluctantly relinquished the idea. The train was very late, 
and the wind seemed to rise higher every minute ; but at 
last the whistle was heard, and in a few moments more 
Jenny’s quaint old figure alighted from a grimy third-class 
carriage, and proceeded with difficulty to “ rax doun ” the 
basket and bundle from the high seat. 

Mona’s heart bled afresh at the sight of the weather- 
worn old face, and her whole nature recoiled from the task 
she had accepted. After all, why should she interfere? 
Might she not do more harm than good ? Would it not be 
wiser to leave the whole development of events to Mother 
Nature and the friendly Fates ? 

“ Is that you, Jenny?” she said ; “ I am going out your 
way, so we can walk together. Give me your basket.” 

“Hoot awa’, Miss Maclean! You leddies dinna tak’ 
weel wi’ the like o’ that. Feel the weicht o’ it.” 

“ That is nothing,” said Mona, bracing her muscles to 
treat it like a feather. “ I will take the bundle, too, if you 
like. And now, Jenny, I want to hear about your travels.” 

Her great fear was lest the old woman’s suspicions should 


304 : 


MONA MACLEAN. 


be aroused before they got out of the town, and she talked 
rather excitedly about anything that suggested itself. At 
last they passed the outskirts, and Mona drew a long breath 
of mingled relief and apprehension. 

“It’s an awfu’ nicht,” gasped Jenny, taking Mona’s 
proffered arm, as a fierce gust of wind swept across the bare 
fields. “ I nae ken hoo I’d win hame my lane. But what 
taks ye sae far on siccan a nicht ?” 

“ I w r ent out to see you last night,” Mona answered, ir- 
relevantly, “ but found you away.” 

“ Eh, lassie, but I’m sair fashed ! An’ ye’d no’ ken that 
the key was at the cottar-hoose? Ye micht hae gaed in, 
and rested yersel’ a bit. I’d ask ye in the nicht, but the 
hoose is cauld, and nae doubt ye’re gaun tae some ither 
body.” 

“ Yes,” said Mona, and then she rushed into the subject 
that occupied all her thoughts. “ When did you last hear 
from Maggie ? ” she asked. 

The old woman’s face darkened. “ I wadna wonner but 
there’ll be a letter frae her at the cottar-hoose. I’m that ill 
pleased wi’ her for no’ writin’. It’ll be sax weeks, come 
Monday, sin’ I’d ony word. I’ll no’ ken a meenit’s peace 
till her twel’month’s oot in Feb’ry, and she’s back at 
hame.” 

“ Perhaps she is ill,” said Mona, deliberately. 

Jenny peered up at her companion’s face in the darkness. 

“ What gars ye say that ? ” she asked quickly. 

“ Jenny,” said Mona in a voice that shook with sym- 
pathy, “ when I went out last night, I found Maggie at the 
house. She has come home.” 

She never could remember afterwards whether she added 
anything more, or whether Jenny guessed at once what had 
befallen. There were a few quick imperious questions, and 
then the old woman dropped her bundle and burst into a 
torrent of wrath that made Mona’s blood run cold. For 
some minutes she could scarcely understand a word of the 
incoherent outcry, but it was an awful experience to see 
the dim figure of the mother, standing there with upraised 
hands on the deserted road, calling down curses upon her 
child. 

Presently she picked up her bundle, and walked on so 
swiftly that Mona could scarcely keep pace with her. 


M1THER? 


305 


“ Hoo daured she come hame?” she muttered. “ Hoo 
daured she, hoo daured she ? Could she no’ bide whaur nae- 
body kent her, and no’ shame her auld rnither afore a ’ the 
folk? The bare-faced hussy! I’d ha’ slammed the door i’ 
her face. An’ she’ll oot o’ the hoose this vera nicht, she an’ 
the bairn o’ her shame. There’s no’ room yonder for baith 
her an’ me. I nae care what comes o’ them. She suld h t ^’ 
thocht o’ that i’ time. We maun e’en reap what we saw. 
Frae this day forrit she’s nae bairn o’ mine, and I’ll no’ lie 
doon ae nicht wi’ a shameless strumpet unner my roof.” 

“ If you turn her out of the house,” Mona said quietly, 
“ you will tell all the world what has happened. At present 
it is a secret.” 

Jenny’s face brightened, but only for a moment. 

“ Ye needna pit yersel’ aboot tae tell me the like o’ 
that,” she said bitterly. “ Or maybe ye’re but a lassie yet, 
and dinna ken hoo lang thae secrets is like tae be keepit. I 
never keepit ane myseP, and it’s no’ likely ither folk are 
gaun to begin noo.” Then she burst into a wailing cry, 
“ Eh, Miss Maclean, I’m sair stricken ! I can turn her oot 
o’ my hoose, but I’ll niver haud up my heid again. What’s 
dune canna be undune.” 

“ What is done cannot be undone,” Mona answered very 
slowly ; “ but it can be made a great deal worse. The child 
did not know her trouble was so near, when she came to 
ask your advice and help. Where else, indeed, should she 
have gone? Would you have had her drift on to the 
streets ? Because she has lost what you call her good name, 
do you care nothing for her soul ? I think, in all my life, 
I never knew anything so beautiful as the trustful way in 
which that poor little thing came home to her mother. I’m 
sure I should not have had the courage to do it. She knew 
you better than you do yourself. She had not sat on your 
knee and heard all your loving words for nothing; and 
when the world treated her cruelly, and she fell into tempta- 
tion, she knew where to turn. Fifty vows and promises of 
reformation would not mean so much. If I were a mother, 
I should turn my back on a storm of gossip and slander, and 
thank God on my bended knees for that.” 

Mona paused, and in the darkness she heard a suppressed 
sob. 

“ I am not a child, Jenny,” she went on. “ I know as 
20 


306 


MONA MACLEAN. 


well as you do what the world would say, hut we are away 
from the world just now, you and I ; we are alone in the 
darkness with God. Let us try for a little to see things as 
He sees them. Don’t you think He knows as well as we do 
that if Maggie is kindly and lovingly dealt with now, she 
may live to be a better woman and not a worse, because of 
this fall ? He puts it into her mother’s power to turn this 
evil into good. And you must not think that her life is 
spoilt. She is such a child. She must not stay here, of 
course, but if you will let me, I will find a home for her 
where she will be carefully trained ; and you will live yet to 
see her with a husband of her own to take care of her, and 
little children, of whom you will be proud.” 

Jenny sobbed aloud. “ Na, na, Miss Maclean,” she 
said ; “ ye may pit the pieces thegither, sae that naebody 
kens the pitcher was broke, but the crack’s aye there ! ” 

“That’s true, dear Jenny; but are we not all cracked 
pitchers in the sight of God ? We may not have committed 
just that sin, but may not our pride and selfishness be even 
more wicked in His eyes ? I am sure J esus Christ would 
have said some burning words to the man whose selfishness 
has caused all this misery ; but to poor little Maggie, who 
has suffered so much, He would surely say, ‘ Neither do I 
condemn thee : go, and sin no more.’ It seems to me that 
the only peace we can get in this world is by trying to see 
things as God sees them.” 

So they talked on till they reached the Wood. From 
time to time Jenny spoke softly, with infinite pathos, of her 
child; and then, again and again, her indignation broke 
forth uncontrollably — now against Maggie, now against the 
man who had betrayed her. Mona’s influence was strong, 
but it was exerted against a mighty rock of opposition ; and 
just when all seemed gained, the stone rolled heavily back 
into its place. She was almost exhausted with the long 
struggle when they reached the door, and she did not feel 
perfectly sure even then that Jenny would not end by ful- 
filling her original threat. 

Mrs. Arnot had gone home half an hour before, and 
Maggie was lying alone, with pale face and large pathetic 
eyes. She recognised her mother’s step, and turned towards 
the opening door with quivering lips. 

“ Mither ! ” she sobbed, like a lost lamb. 


“ MITHER ! 


307 

There was a moment of agonising uncertainty, and then 
a very bitter cry. 

“ Eh, my dawtie, my dawtie ! my bonnie bit bairn ! I 
suld ha’ keepit ye by me.” 

Mona slipped into the kitchen. The blazing fire and 
the well-polished tins swam mistily before her eyes, as she 
took the tea-canister from the shelf, and her whole heart 
was singing a paean of thanksgiving. 

“ It was the ‘ Mither ! ’ that did it,” she thought. “ Where 
was all my wordy talk compared to the pathos of that ? But 
I am very glad I came, all the same.” 

She left the mother and daughter alone for ten minutes 
or so, and then carried in the tea-tray. 

“I don’t know how you feel, Jenny,” she said, “but I 
am very cold and very hungry, so I took the liberty of mak- 
ing some tea. I even think Maggie might be allowed to 
have some, very weak, if she promises faithfully not to talk 
any more to-night.” 

Jenny drank her hot tea, and her heart was cheered and 
| comforted, in spite of all her burden of sorrow. Miss Mac- 
lean’s friendship was at least something to set over against 
the talk of the folk ; and — and — she thought she would 
read a chapter of her Bible that night; she would try to 
find the bit about Jesus and the woman. Had any one told 
Jenny beforehand that, so soon after hearing such dreadful 
news, her heart would have been comparatively at rest, she 
would have laughed the idea to scorn. Yet so it was. Poor 
old Jenny ! The morrow was yet to come, with reflections 
of its own, with the return swing of the pendulum, weighted 
with principle and prejudice and old tradition; but in her 
simplicity she never thought of that, and for a few short 
i hours she had peace. 


308 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A CRIMSON STREAK. 

As soon as tea was over, Mona rose to go. Jenny begged 
her to stay all night, for the wind was howling most dis- 
mally through the pine-trees; but Mona laughed at the 
idea of danger or difficulty, and set out with a light heart. 
She had scarcely found herself alone, however, in the wild 
and gusty night, when she began to regret her own rash- 
ness. She was groping her way slowly along the carriage- 
drive, with the guidance of the hedge, when, with a sud- 
den sense of protection, she caught sight of lamps at the 
gate. 

Dudley came forward as soon as he heard her step. 

“ That is right,” he said, with a chime of gladness in his 
beautiful voice ; “ I thought you would obey orders.” 

“ I am naturally glad to receive the commendation of 
my superior officer.” 

“ Is Jenny back?” 

“ Yes. All is well, — for to-night at least. I must go 
out as early as possible to-morrow. It was one of the most 
beautiful sights I ever saw in my life ; ” and Mona described 
what had taken place. 

“ You have done a good day’s work,” Dudley said, after 
a pause. 

“ Oh, I did nothing. I laughed at my own heroics when 
I heard Maggie’s 4 Mither ! ’ ” 

“No doubt; but Maggie’s part would have fallen rather 
flat, if you had not borne all the brunt of the disclosure.” 

“ Are you going to visit your patient ? ” 

“ Is there any necessity ? ” 

“None whatever, I imagine.” 

“ Then I shall have the pleasure of driving you home.” 

“ Oh, no, thank you ! I would rather walk.” 

They were standing now in the full light of the lamps. 
Dudley waxed bold. 

“ Look me in the face, Miss Maclean, and tell me that 
that is true.” 

Mona raised her eyes with a curious sensation, as if the 
ground were slipping from under her feet. 


A CRIMSON STREAK. 


309 


“No,” she said, “it is not true. I rather dread the 
walk ; but — you know I cannot come with you.” 

“ Why not? ” 

She frowned at his persistence ; then met his eyes again. 

“ Because I should not do it by daylight,” she said 
proudly. 

There was a minute’s silence. 

“ Burns’ substitute comes to-morrow,” he said care- 
lessly. 

Her face changed very slightly, but sufficiently to catch 
his quick eye. 

“ And as soon as I have discussed things with him, I 
have promised to carry my old aunt off to warmer climes. 
I shan’t be back here till August.” 

No answer. A sudden blast of wind swept along the 
road, and she instinctively laid hold of the shaft of the gig 
for support. 

Dudley held out his hand. 

“ It is a high step,” he said, “ but I think you can man- 
age it.” 

Mona took his hand almost unconsciously, tried to say 
something flippant, failed utterly, and took her seat in the 
gig without a word. 

“ Am I drugged ? ” she thought, “ or am I going mad ? ” 

Never in all her life had she so utterly failed in savoir- 
faire. She felt vaguely how indignant she would be next 
day at her own weakness and want of pride ; but at the 
moment she only knew that it was good to be there with 
Dr. Dudley. 

He arranged the rug over her knees, and took the reins. 

“ Is this better than walking ? ” he asked in a low voice, 
stooping down to catch her answer. 

Only for a moment she tried to resist the influence that 
was creeping over her. 

“ Yes,” she said simply. 

“ Are you glad you came ? ” 

And this time she did not try at all. 

“ Yes.” 

“ That’s good ! ” The reins fell loosely on the mare’s 
back. “ Peggy’s tired,” he said. “ Don’t hurry, old girl. 
Take your time.” 

Mona shivered nervously. 


310 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ You are cold,” he said, taking a plaid from the back 
of the seat. “ Will you put this round you ? ” 

“ No, thank you; I am not really cold, and I have no 
hands. I should be blown away altogether if I did not hold 
on to this iron bar.” 

“ Should you ? ” he said, with a curious intonation in his 
voice. “ Take the reins.” 

He put them in her hand, unfolded the plaid, and 
stooped to put it round her shoulders. In a momentary 
lull of the storm, he fancied he felt her warm breath on his 
chilled cheek ; a little curl of her hair, dancing in the wind, 
brushed his hand lightly like a cobweb ; and she sat there, 
unguarded as a child, one hand holding the reins, the other 
grasping the rail of the gig. 

Then Dudley forgot himself. His good resolutions were 
blotted out, and he felt only a gambler’s passionate desire 
to stake all in one mad throw. If it failed, he was a ruined 
man ; but, if it succeeded, what treasure-house could con- 
tain his riches? He could not wait, — he could not, he could 
not ! One moment would tell him all, and he must know 
it. The future might have pleasures of its own in store, 
but would it ever bring back this very hour, of night, and 
storm, and solitude, and passionate desire ? 

So the arm, that passed around Mona to arrange the 
plaid, was not withdrawn. “ Give me the reins,” he said 
firmly, with that calmness which in hours of intense excite- 
ment is Nature’s most precious gift to her sons ; “ give me 
the reins and let go the rail— I will take care of you.” 

And with a touch that was tender, but fearless with 
passion, his strong arm drew her close. 

And Mona ? why did she not repulse him ? Never, since 
she was a little child, had any man, save Sir Douglas and 
old Mr, Reynolds, done more than touch her hand ; and 
now she obeyed without a word, and sat there silent and 
unresisting. Why ? Because she knew not what had be- 
fallen her ; because, with a last instinct of self-preservation, 
she held her peace, lest a word should betray the frantic 
beating of her heart. 

“ This is >def$h*” she. thought ; , but it was life, not .death. 
Dudley’s eye had gauged well the promise of that folded 
bud; and now, in the sunshine of his touch, on that.w.ihl 
and wintry night, behold a glowing crimson streak ! 


AN UNBELIEVER. 


311 


And so Ralph knew that this woman would he his wife. 

Not a word passed between them as Peggy trotted slowly 
homewards. Mona could not speak, and Ralph rejoiced to 
think that he need not. When they reached Miss Simp- 
son’s door, he sprang down, lifted Mona to the ground, 
raised her hands to his lips, and stood there waiting, till 
the door had shut in the light. 


CHAPTER XLY. 

AN UNBELIEVER. 

Mona did not see Dudley again before he left Borrow- 
ness. Strange as it may seem, she did not even wish to do 
so. Nothing could have added just then to the intensity 
of her life. For days she walked in a golden dream, per- 
forming her daily duties perhaps even better than usual, but 
with a constant sense of their unreality ; and when at last 
outward things began to reassert their importance, she had 
much ado to bring her life into unison again. 

Hitherto her experience had ebbed and flowed between 
fairly fixed limits; and now, all at once, a strong spring- 
tide had rushed up upon the beach, carrying cherished land- 
marks before it, and invading every sheltered nook and 
cranny of her being. She had fancied that she knew life, 
and she had reduced many shrewd observations to broad 
general principles ; and now, behold, the relation of all 
things was changed, and for the moment she scarcely knew 
what was eternal rock and what mere floating driftwood. 

“ I feel,” she said, “ like a man who has lived half his 
life in a house that amply satisfies all his requirements, till 
one day by chance he touches a secret spring, and discovers 
a staircase in the wall, leading to a suite of enchanted rooms. 
He goes back to his study and laboratory and dining-room, 
and finds them the same, yet not the same; he can never 
forget that the enchanted rooms are there. He must annex 
them, and bring them into relation with the rest of the 
•house, and make them a part of his domicile ; and ■ to do 


312 


MONA MACLEAN. 


that he must re-adjust and expand his views of things, and 
live on a larger scale.” 

She looked for no letter, and none came. “ When the 
examination is over in July, I shall be able to say and do 
things which I dare not say and do now.” The words had 
conveyed no definite meaning to her mind when they were 
spoken; hut she knew now that when August came, and 
not till then, she would hear from her friend again. 

That his behaviour the night before had been inconsist- 
ent and unconventional in the highest degree, did not even 
occur to her. When one experiences an earthquake for the 
first time, one does not stop to inquire which of its features 
are peculiar to itself, and which are common to all earth- 
quakes alike. Moreover, it was weeks and months before 
Mona realised that what had passed between Dr. Dudley 
and herself was as old as the history of man. I am almost 
ashamed to confess it of a woman whose girlhood was past, 
and who made some pretension to wisdom, but it is the 
simple fact that her relation to Dudley seemed to her some- 
thing unique and unparalleled. While most girls dream 
of Love, Mona had dreamt of Duty, and now Love came 
to her as a stranger — a stranger armed with a mysterious, 
divine right to open up the secret chambers of her heart. 
She did not analyse and ask herself what it all meant. She 
lived a day at a time, and was happy. 

More than a week elapsed before there appeared in her 
sky a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand, and the cloud 
took the form of the old inquiry, “ What would Dr. Dudley 
say when -he learned that she was a medical student, that 
her life was entirely different from what he had supposed ? ” 
She shut her eyes at first when the question asserted itself, 
and turned her face the other way ; but the cloud was 
there, and it grew. For one moment she thought of writ- 
ing to him ; but the thought was banished almost before it 
took definite form. To write to him at all, to make any ex- 
planation whatever now, would be to assume — what he must 
be the first to put into words. 

As soon as February came in, Mona began to look out 
for a successor in the shop, and to prepare her cousin for 
her approaching departure. It was days before Rachel would 
even bear to have the subject broached. Then came a period 
of passionate protestation and indignant complaint; but 


AN UNBELIEVER. 


313 


when at length the good soul understood that Mona had 
never really belonged to her at all, she began to lavish upon 
her young cousin a wealth of tearful affection that touched 
Mona’s heart to the quick. 

“ It has been such a quiet, restful winter,” Mona said 
one day, when the time of complaint was giving place to 
the time of affection ; “ and in some respects the happiest 
of my life.” 

“ Then why should you go? I am sure, Mona, I am not 
one to speak of these things ; but anybody can see how it is 
with Mr. Brown. Every day I am expecting him to pop 
the question. You surely won’t refuse a chance like 
that. You are getting on, you know, and he is so steady 
and so clever, and so fond of all the things you like your- 
self.” 

Mona’s cheeks had regained their wonted colour before 
she answered, “ In the first place, dear, I shall not 4 get the 
chance,’ as you call it ; in the second place, I should never 
think of accepting it, if I did.” 

“ Well, I’m sure, there’s no getting to the bottom of you. 
I could understand your not thinking the shop genteel- 
some folks have such high and mighty notions — but it is 
not that with you. You know I’ve always said you were a 
born shopkeeper. I never kept any kind of accounts be- 
fore you came, but I don’t really think I made anything by 
the shop at all to speak of— I don’t indeed ! So many 
things got mislaid, and, when they cast up again, they were 
soiled and faded, and one thing and another. I showed 
Mr. Brown your books, and told him what we had made 
last quarter, and he was perfectly astonished. I am sure he 
thinks you would be a treasure in a shop like his. My niece, 
Mary Ann, was capital company, and all her ways were the 
same as mine like, but she wasn’t a shopkeeper like you. 
She was aye forgetting to put things back in their places, 
and there would be such a to-do when they were wanted 
again. Poor thing ! I wonder if she’s got quit of that lady- 
help, as she calls her— lady-hindrance is liker it, by my 
way of thinking ! And then, Mona, I did hope you would 
see your way to being baptised. That was a great thing 
about Mary Ann. She was a member of the church, and 
that gave us so many more things to talk about like. She 
was as fond of the prayer-meeting as I was myself.” 


314 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ You will come and see me sometimes,” Rachel said a 
few days later. 

“ That I will,” Mona answered cordially. “ I have 
promised to spend the summer holidays with some friends, 
but I will come to you for a week, in the first instance, if 
you will be kind enough to take me in, — the second week 
of August.” 

And the reader will be glad to know that if ever human 
being had a guilty conscience, Mona had one at that mo- 
ment. 

The second week of August ! How her heart beat at the 
thought of it ! The examination would be over. With his 
short-sighted eyes, Dr. Dudley would probably never have 
seen her at Burlington House ; and down at Castle Maclean, 
with the sunshine dancing on the water, and the waves 
plashing softly on the beach below, she would tell him the 
whole story, before the lists came out and betrayed her. In 
the exultation of that moment, the very possibility of an- 
other failure did not occur to her. The lists would appear 
in the course of the week, and they two would con the re- 
sults together. She would humble herself, if need were, 
and ask his pardon for having in a sense deceived him, 
but surelythere would be no need. Everything would be 
easy and natural and beautiful — in the second week of 
August ! 

There was much surprise, considerable regret, and not a 
little genuine sorrow, when the news of Miss Maclean’s de- 
parture became known ; but perhaps no one felt it so keenly 
as Auntie Bell. The old woman expected little of men, 
and, as a rule, found in them as much as she expected. Of 
women she had constantly before her so lofty a type in her 
hard-working, high-souled, keen-witted self, that her female 
neighbours were a constant source of disappointment to her. 
She had been prejudiced in Mona’s favour for her father’s 
sake, and the young girl had more than answered to her ex- 
pectations. Miss Maclean had some stufi: in her, the old 
woman used to say, and that was more than one could say 
of most of the lassies one met. 

One day towards the end of February Auntie Bell packed 
a basket with the beautiful new-laid eggs that were begin- 
ning to be plentiful, and set out, for the -first time in many 
months, to pay a visit to .Rachel Siippson. To her inward 


AN UNBELIEVER. 315 

delight she met two of Mr. Brown’s sisters as she passed 
through the streets of Kilwinnie. 

“ Where are you going, Mrs. Easson ? ” asked one. “ It’s 
not often we see you here nowadays.” 

Auntie Bell looked keenly up through the gold-rimmed 
spectacles. 

“ Whaur wad I be gaun ? ” she asked grimly, “ but tae 
see Miss Maclean ? She’s for leavin’ us.” 

“ Why is she going ? I understood she was making her- 
self quite useful to Miss Simpson in the shop.” 

“ Quite usefu’ ! ” Auntie Bell could scarcely keep her 
indignation within bounds. “ I fancy she is quite usefu’ — 
mair’s the peety that the same canna be maintained o’ some 
o’ the lave o’ us. Miss Simpson wad gie her een tae gar her 
bide, I’m thinkin’. But what is there here tae keep a leddy 
like you ? Hae ye no’ mind what kin’ o’ mon her faither 
was ? Div ye no’ ken that she has siller eneuch an’ tae 
spare ? Ma certy ! she’s no’ like tae say as muckle tae com- 
mon country-folk like you an’ me, an’ Rachel Simpson yon- 
der, but onybody can see, frae the bit w’ys she has wi’ her, 
that she’s no’ used tae the like 0’ us ! ” 

Having thus delivered her soul, Auntie Bell set her bas- 
ket on a low stone dyke ; wiped, first her face, and then her 
spectacles, with a large and spotless handkerchief, and pro- 
ceeded on her way to the station with an easy mind. 

Rachel was out paying calls when she arrived, but Mona 
received her friend with an enthusiastic welcome that am- 
ply repaid the old woman for her trouble. Half of the eccen- 
tricity for which Auntie Bell had so wide a reputation was 
enthusiasm blighted in the bud ; and she keenly appreciated 
the quality in another— when it was accompanied by a suffi- 
ciency of ballast. 

“ You look tired,” Mona said, as she poured out the tea 
she had prepared herself. 

“ Ay, I’m sair owerwraucht. Ane o’ the lassies is ill — 
that’s the first guid cup 0’ tea I hae tasted i’ this hoose ! 
Ane o’ the lassies is ill — she’s no’ a lassie aither, she’ll be 
forty come Martinmas ; but she’s been wi’ me sin’ she was 
saxteen, and the silly thiiig’ll no’ see a doctor, an’ I nae ken 
what’s tae be dune.” 

“ What’s the matter with her ? ” asked Mona. 

“ Hoot, lassie, it’s nae hearin’ for the like o’ you,” 


316 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ It is just the hearing that is for me. I am not a child, 
and, now that I am going away, Rachel has no objection to 
my telling you in confidence that I am studying to be a 
doctor.” 

Amusement — incredulity — dismay — appeared, one after 
the other, on the weather-beaten, expressive old face, and 
then it grew very grave. 

“ Na, na, lassie,” said the old woman severely. “ Ye 
dinna mean that. A canny, wiselike thing like you wad 
niver pit herseP forrit like some o’ thae hussies we hear 
aboot in Ameriky. Think o’ yer faither! Ye’ll no’ dae 
onything that wad bring discredit on him ? ” 

“ Tell me about your servant,” Mona said, waiving the 
question with a gentleness that was more convincing than 
any protestations. “ What does she complain of?” 

Auntie Bell hesitated, but the subject weighed heavily 
on her mind, and the prospect of sympathy was sweet. 

“ It’s no’ that she complains,” she said, “ but — ” her 
voice sank into an expressive whisper. 

Mona listened attentively, and then asked a few ques- 
tions. 

“ I wish I could come out with you, and see her to- 
night,” she said ; “ but a young woman has an appointment 
with me about the situation. I will walk out to-morrow 
and see your maid. It is very unlikely that I shall be able 
to do anything — I know so little yet — but her symptoms may 
be due to many things. If I cannot, you must either per- 
suade her to see the doctor here ; or, if she was able to be 
moved, I could take her with me when I go to Edinburgh, 
to the Womens’ Cottage Hospital.” 

“ And what w’y suld ye pit yersel’ aboot ? ” 

Mona laughed. “ It’s my business ,” she said. “ We 
all live for something.” 

“ Na, na ; if she doesna mend, she maun e’en see I)r. Rob- 
ertson. Maybe I’ve no’ been sae firm wi’ her as I suld ha’ 
been; but I’ve nae opeenion o’ doctors ava’. I’m ready tae 
dee when my time comes, but it’ll no’ be their pheesic that 
kills me.” 

Rachel came in at this moment, and the subject was 
dropped, till Auntie Bell rose to go. 

“ To-morrow afternoon then,” Mona said as they stood 
at the garden-gate. 


AN UNBELIEVER. 


317 


“ Eh, lassie, I couldna hae been fonder o’ my ain bairn ! 
Who’d iver ha thocht it ? — a wiselike, canny young crittur 
like you ! Pit a’ that nonsense oot o yer heid ! ” 

Mona laid her hands on the old woman’s shoulders, and 
stooped to kiss the wrinkled brow. 

“ I would not vex you for the world, dear Auntie Bell,” 
she said. “ If you like, we will discuss it to-morrow after- 
noon,” 

“ Ha, na, there’s nae thing tae discuss. Ye maun ken 
fine that the thing’s no fut for yer faither’s bairn ! ” And 
with a heavy heart the old woman betook herself to the sta- 
tion. 

“ More by good luck than good guidance,” Mona said, 
the medicine she prescribed for the farm-servant proved 
effectual, at least for the moment ; and a simple tonic, 
aided by abundant good things from Auntie Bell’s larder 
and dairy, soon brought back the glow of health to the pale 
cheeks. Auntie Bell looked very grave, and said not one 
word on the subject either to Mona or any one else ; but the 
patient was less reticent, and, before Mona left Borrowness, 
she was infinitely touched by an appeal that came to her 
from a sick woman in Kilwinnie. 

“ I’ve niver been able tae bring mysel’ tae speak o’t,” 
she said, as Mona sat by her bedside, “ an’ noo, I doot it’s 
ower late, but they do say ye’re no canny, an’ I thocht may- 
be ye culd help me.” 

Poor Mona ! Very few minutes were sufficient to con- 
vince her that she could do nothing, that the case was far 
beyond her powers, if, indeed, not beyond the possibility of 
surgical interference. 

“ I am so sorry,” she said, with a quiver in her voice ; “ but 
I know so little, it is no wonder I cannot help you. You 
must let me speak to the doctor. He is a good man, and he 
knows so much more than I do. I will tell him all about it, 
so he won’t have to worry you or ask you questions. He 
will be able to lessen the pain very much, and — to do you 
good.” 

Her conscience reproached her for the last words, but 
they were received only with a sigh of infinite resigna- 
tion. 

“ I made sure it was ower late,” said the woman, wea- 


318 


MONA MACLEAN. 


rily ; “ but when I heard about Mrs. Easson’s Christie, I just 
thocht I would speir at ye myseP. It was awfu’ guid o’ ye 
tae come sae far.” 

Mona could find no words. Even the tragedy of Mag- 
gie’s story faded into insignificance before the pathos of 
this ; for Mona was young and strong, and life seemed to 
her very sweet. 

“ Thank God, I am going back to work ! ” she thought 
as she hastened home. “ I Avant to learn all that one hu- 
man being can. It is awful to be buried alive in the coffin 
of one’s own ignorance and helplessness.” 

Alas for the dreams of youth ! We may work and 
strive, but do the coffin- walls ever recede so very far ? 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

FAREWELL TO BORROWFTESS. 

Two great honours were in store for Mona before she 
left Borrowness. 

In the first place, the Misses Brown paid her a formal 
call. They were arrayed in Sabbath attire, and were civil 
even to effusiveness ; but they did not invite Mona to their 
house, nor suggest another excursion. Auntie Bell’s re- 
marks had had the intended effect, of making them feel 
very small ; but, on reflection, they did not see that they 
could have acted otherwise. It was a matter of compara- 
tive indifference to them Avhether their brother married a 
rich woman or a poor one ; it was no part of their pro- 
gramme that he should marry at all. They found it diffi- 
cult to predict exactly how he would be influenced by this 
fresh light on the situation ; and, for the present, they did 
not think it necessary to tell him anything about it. 

Some mysterious and exaggerated report, however, of 
“ high connections ” must certainly have got wind, or I can- 
not think that the second and greater honour Avould have 
fallen to Mona’s share. It came in the form of a note on 
thick hand-made paper, embossed with a gorgeous crest. 


FAREWELL TO BORROWNESS. 


319 


“ Mr. and Mrs. Cookson request the pleasure of Miss 
Maclean’s company to dinner, &c.” 

Dinner ! Mona had not “ dined ” for months. She 
tossed the note aside with a laugh. 

“ If my friend Matilda has not played me false,” she 
said — ■“ and I don’t believe she has — this is indeed success ! ” 

Her first impulse was to refuse, but she thought of Ma- 
tilda’s disappointment; and she thought, too, that Dr. Dud- 
ley, knowing what he did of her relations with the girl, would 
think a refusal unworthy of her ; so she showed the note to 
Rachel. 

“ Of course you’ll go,” was Rachel’s immediate reply to 
the unspoken question. “ But I do think, seeing how 
I short a time we’re to be together, they might have asked 
me too ! ” 

Mona did not answer. She was strongly tempted at 
that moment to write and say she went nowhere without 
! her cousin, hut she could not honestly agree that the Cook- 
sons might have invited Rachel too. 

She ended by going, dressed with the utmost care, that 
I she might not disappoint Matilda’s expectations ; and, on 
I the whole, she was pleasantly surprised. There was less 
vulgar display than she had expected. Mrs. Cookson was 
aggressively patronizing, and Clarinda almost rude, but for 
that Mona had been prepared. Mr. Cookson cared nearly 
as much for appearances as his wife did ; but, as Mona had 
guessed, there was good wood under all the veneer. He 
was much pleased with Mona’s appearance ; his pleasure 
grew to positive liking when she expressed a preference for 
i dni champagne ; and w’hen she played some of Mendels- 
sohn’s Lieder, from Matilda’s well-thumbed copy, he be- 
came quite enthusiastic. 

u I am afraid dear old Kullak’s hair would stand on end, 
'! if he heard me,” Mona said to the eager girl at her elbow, 
“ and he would throw my music out of the window, as he 
did one day, when I thought I had surpassed myself.” But 
there were many stages of musical criticism between Kullak 

and Mr. Cookson. . , n . , , 

“ The girls have been playing those things to me tor 
years,” he said, “ but I never saw any sense in them before. 
It was all diddle-diddle, twang-twang. Now, when you play 
them, bless me ! I feel as I did when Cook s man began to 


320 


MONA MACLEAN. 


speak English to me, the first time I was at a French rail- 
way station.” 

With Matilda’s handsome brother, Mona did not get on 
so well. 

“ Getting tired of your hobby, Miss Maclean?” he said, 
standing in front of her, and twirling his moustache. 

Mona looked up with innocent eyes. 

“ Which hobby ? ” she said. 

He laughed and changed the subject. He was not shy, 
but he had not the courage to specify shopkeeping. 

All evening Matilda followed Mona like a shadow ; tak- 
ing her hand whenever she dared, and gazing up into her 
face with worshipping eyes. “ It is too lovely having you 
here,” she said, “ but I can’t forget it’s the end of all things.” 

“ Oh no, it is not,” Mona answered. “ You will be 
coming up to London one of these days, and perhaps your 
mother will let you spend a few days with me. In the 
meantime, I want you to spend a long afternoon with me 
to-morrow.” 

The long afternoon was in some respects a trying one, 
■ but that and most of the other farewells were over at length, 
and Mona was hard at work packing up. 

“ What a lifetime it seemed, six months ago,” she said, 
“ and now that it is past — ! And how little I ever dreamed 
that I should be so sorry to go ! ” 

She had to find room for quite a number of keepsakes, 
and she almost wept over the heterogeneous collection. 
There were home-made needle-books and pin-cushions from 
the girls who had come to her for advice about bonnets, and 
situations, and husbands ; there was a pair of gaudy beaded 
footstools, which Rachel had got at a bargain at the bazaar ; 
there was a really beautiful Bible from the Bonthrons (how 
Mona longed to show it to Dr. Dudley !) ; and from Matilda 
Oookson there was a wreath of shells and seaweed picked up 
near Castle Maclean, and mounted on cardboard, with these 
lines in the centre of the wreath — 

“ FROM 

M. C. 

IN GRATEFUL MEMORY 
OF 

THE HAPPIEST HOURS OF HER LIFE.” 


FAREWELL TO BORROWNESS. 


321 


The inspiration was a happy one, and it had been carried 
out with much care, and a dash of art. Tradition and early 
education had of course to put in their say ; and they did it 
in the form of a massive gold frame, utterly out of keeping 
with the simple wreath. 

“ Oh, dear, why will people be so pathetic ? ” said Mona ; 
but, if the gifts had been priceless jewels, she could not have 
packed them with tenderer care. 

Then came the hardest thing of all, the parting with 
Rachel. A bright and competent young woman had been 
engaged in Mona’s place, but Rachel could not be induced 
to hear a word in her favour. 

“What’s all that to me?” she sobbed; “it’s not like 
one’s own flesh and blood. You’d better never have come ! ” 

Mona felt sure that the edge of this poignant grief would 
very soon wear off, but when the first bend in the railway 
had shut the limp, flapping handkerchief out of sight, she 
sank back in the comfortless carriage, feeling as if she had 
come to the end of a severe and protracted campaign. 

She was too exhausted to read, and was thankful that by 
some happy chance she had no fellow-passengers. No 
mountains and fjords haunted her memory now; but in- 
stead — changing incessantly like a kaleidoscope — came a 
distorted phantasmagoria of perished elastic and ill-assorted 
knitting-needles ; red-cushioned pews and purple bonnet- 
strings ; suffering women in poor little homes ; crowded 
bazaar and whirling ball-room ; rocky coast and frosted 
pines ; and — steady, unchanging, like the light behind the 
rattling bits of glass — the wonderful, mystic glow of the 
suite of enchanted rooms. 

Dusk was gathering when the train drew into the station. 
Yes, there stood Doris and the Sahib. Doris was looking 
eagerly in the direction of the coming train, and the Sahib 
was looking at Doris. But what a welcome they gave the 
traveller! A welcome that drove all the phantasmagoria 
out of her head, and made her forget that she was anything 
other than Doris’s sister, the friend of the Sahib, and — 
something to somebody else. 

“ Ponies and pepper-pot still to the fore ? ” she said, as 
they crossed the platform. 

“ Oh, yes ; but a horrible fear has seized me lately that 
pepper-pot is beginning to grow.” 

21 


322 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Are you not coming with us ? 55 Mona asked, as the 
Sahib arranged the carriage-rug. 

He looked down at his great athletic figure with a good- 
humoured smile. 

“How is it to be done?” he asked, “unless I put the 
whole toy in my pocket — dolls and all. Miss Colquhoun 
has been kind enough to ask me to dinner. I am looking 
forward to meeting you then.” 

Scarcely a word passed between the friends as they 
drove home, and Mona was glad to lie down and rest until 
dinner-time. 

“ Welcome, Miss Maclean ! ” cried Mr. Colquhoun as she 
entered the drawing-room. “ You’ve come in the very nick 
of time to give me your opinion of a new microtome I want 
to buy. I could not have held out another day. Why, I 
declare you are looking bonnier than ever ! ” 

“ She is looking five years younger,” said Doris. 

“ Since we are making personal remarks,” said the Sa- 
hib, “ I should have said older, but that does not prevent 
my agreeing cordially with Mr. Colquhoun.” 

Mona’s laugh only half concealed her rising colour. 

“ Older has it,” she said, nodding to the Sahib. 
“ Score ! ” 

She looked round at the unpretentious perfection of the 
room and the table, with a long sigh of satisfaction. 

“ There is no house in the world,” she said, “ where I 
have precisely the sense of restfulness that I have here. 
Nothing jars; I don’t need to talk unless I like ; and I can 
afford to be my very own self.” 

“ That’s a good hearing,” said Mr. Colquhoun, heartily. 
“ Pass your glass.” 

The two gentlemen kept the ball going between them 
most of the time, for Doris never talked much except in a 
solitude a deux. And yet how intensely she made her pres- 
ence felt, as she sat at the head of the table — sweet, gra- 
cious, almost child-like, her fair young face scarcely giving 
a hint of the strength and enthusiasm that lay behind it ! 

“ I can hardly believe that I am to have you for a whole 
week,” she said, following Mona into her bedroom, and 
rousing the fire ; “ it is too good to be true. And I am so 
glad you are going back to your work ! ” 

“ So am I, dear,” said Mona, simply. 


FAREWELL TO BORROWNESS. 


323 


“ Of course ! I knew you would come back to the point 
you started from.” 

Mona smiled. “ You are determined not to make it a 
spiral, I see. Ah, well ! taking it as a circle, it is a bigger 
one than I imagined.” 

Her words would not have struck Doris but for the tone 
in which they were unconsciously spoken. 

“ What has biggened it?” she said, looking up from the 
fire. 

Mona’s hands were clasped beneath her head on the 
low back of her arm-chair, and her eyes were fixed on the 
ceiling. 

“ I don’t know,” she said. “ Many things. How is 
Maggie getting on ? ” 

“ Famously. Laurie says she will make a first-rate cook. 
You should have seen the child’s face when I told her you 
were coming ! I am so grateful to you, Mona, for giving 
me a chance to help her. There is so little that one can 
do ! — that I can do at least ! She is a sweet little thing, 
and so pretty. When I think of that man — ” her face 
crimsoned, and she stopped short. 

“ Don’t think of him, dear,” said Mona. “ It is no use ; 
and, you know, you must not spoil Maggie.” 

Doris bent low over the fire, and the tears glistened on 
her long eyelashes. She tried to wink them away, but it 
was no use ; and, after all, there was only Mona there to 
see, and Mona was almost a second self. She pressed her 
handkerchief hard against her eyes for a moment, and then 
turned to her friend with a smile. 

“ What a time you must have had of it that night at the 
Wood ! 1 was proud of you ! ” 

“ I wish you had more cause, dear. My duties were 
simple in the extreme.” 

“ And the country doctor — what did he say when he 
found how you had risen to the occasion ? ” 

Mona’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling again. 

“ I don’t think he said anything that is likely to live in 
history. I believe he ventured to suggest that Maggie 
might have some beef- tea.” 

This, as Dudley could have testified, was a pure fabrica- 
tion. 

“ I don’t suppose he would be man enough to admit it, 


324 


MONA MACLEAN. 


but be must have seen that you were in your proper place 
there — not he.” 

Mona opened her lips to reply, and then closed them 
again. 

“ Maggie has not been my only patient by any means,” 
she said, finally. “ I have had no end of practice. I assure 
you I might have set up my carriage, if I had been paid for 
it all. Oh, Doris, it is sad work sometimes ! ” and she told 
the story of the last patient she had had. 

“ Poor soul ! Glad as I am that you have left that place, 
I don’t know how you could bring yourself to leave her.” 

“No more do I, quite.” 

“ You could not have brought her into Edinburgh?” 

Mona shook her head. “ Too late ! ” she said. 

“ It must have been dreadful to give her over, after all, 
to a man. I don’t know how you could do it.” 

“ That’s because you don’t know how kind he is, how he 
met me half-way, and made my task easy. It was the Kil- 
winnie doctor, you know, an elderly man.” Mona sprang to 
her feet, and leaned against the mantelpiece. “ At the risk 
of forfeiting your esteem for ever, Doris, I must record my 
formal testimony that the kindness I have met with at the 
hands of men-doctors is almost incredible. When I think 
how nice some of them are — I almost wonder that we women 
have any patients at all ! ” 

“Nice!" said Doris, quietly, but with concentrated 
scorn. “ It’s their trade to be nice. I never consulted a 
man-doctor in my life, and I never will ; but if by any in- 
conceivable chance I were compelled to, I would infinitely 
prefer a boor to a man who was nice ! ” 

Mona laughed. “ Dear old niceness,” she said, “ I won’t 
have him abused When all is said, he is so much more at- 
tractive than most of the virtues. And before we banish 
him from the conversation, — how do you like the Sahib ? ” 

Doris’s face brightened. 

“ He believes in women-doctors,” she said. 

“ Ay, and in all things lovely and of good report.” Mona 
was forgetting her resolution. 

“ He has very wholesome views on lots of subjects,” Doris 
went on reflectively. 

“ Have you seen much of him ? ” 

“ A good deal. He is very much interested in the things 


FAREWELL TO BORROWNESS. 


325 


my father cares about. I quite understand now what you 
meant when you said he was the sort of man one would like 
to have for a brother.” 

This was disappointing, and Mona brought the conversa- 
tion to a close. 

Every day during her visit the Sahib came in for an hour 
or two, sometimes to lunch or dinner, sometimes to escort 
“ the girls ” to a lecture or concert. He was uniformly kind 
and brotherly to both, but Mona fancied that at times he 
was sorely ill at ease. 

“ If only he would show a little common-sense,” she 
thought, “ and let the matter drop altogether, what a relief 
it would be for both of us ! ” 

But this was not to be. 

On Sunday afternoon Doris had gone out to teach her 
Bible-class, Mr. Oolquhoun was enjoying his weekly after- 
noon nap, and Mona was sitting alone by the fire in the 
library, half lost in a mighty arm-chair, with a book on her 
knee. 

Suddenly the door opened, and the Sahib entered unan- 
nounced. 

“ You are alone ? ” he said, as though he had not counted 
on finding her alone. 

“ Yes,” said Mona, and she tried in vain to say anything 
more. It was Sunday afternoon. 

Somewhat nervously he lifted the book from her lap and 
glanced at the title-page. 

“ Your choice of literature is exemplary,” he said, seat- 
ing himself beside her. 

“I am afraid the example begins and ends with the 
choice, then,” said Mona, colouring. “ I have not read a 
line ; I was dreaming.” 

He looked at her quickly. 

“ Miss Maclean,” he said, making a bold plunge, “ I have 
come for my answer.” 

Mona raised her eyes. 

“What answer do you want, Mr. Dickinson?” she said 
quietly. 

If the Sahib had been absolutely honest he would have 
replied, “ Upon my soul, I don’t know ! ” but there are mo- 
ments when the best of men think it necessary to adapt the 
truth to circumstances. Before Mona came to Edinburgh 


326 


MONA MACLEAN. 


he had certainly regretted those hasty words of his at the 
ball ; but, now that he was in her presence again, now es- 
pecially that he was alone in her presence, the old charm 
returned with all its force. Doris was a pearl, but Mona 
was a diamond ; Doris was spotless, but Mona was crystal- 
line. If only he had met either of these women three years 
ago, what a happy man he would have been ! The Sahib 
had lived a pure, straightforward life, and he was almost in- 
dignant with Nature and the Fates for placing a man like 
him on the horns of such a dilemma ; but Nature has her 
freaks — and her revenges. When he was alone with the 
pearl, the diamond seemed hard, and its play of colours 
dazzling ; when he was alone with the diamond — but no, he 
could not admit that even the clearness and brilliancy of the 
diamond suggested a want in the pearl. 

“ I am not a boy,” he said hastily, almost indignantly, 
“ not to know my own mind.” 

True man as she knew him to be, his words rang false on 
Mona’s sensitive ear. She rose slowly from her chair and 
stood before the fire. 

“ Nor am I a girl,” she said, “ not to know mine. It is 
no fault of mine, Mr. Dickinson, that you did not take my 
answer two months ago. I can only repeat it now,” and she 
turned to leave the room. 

He felt keenly the injustice and justice of her anger ; 
but he was too honest to complain of the first without plead- 
ing guilty to the second. 

“ Considering all that has passed between us,” he said 
simply, “ I think you might have said it less unkindly.” 

He was conscious of the weakness of the answer, but to 
her it was the strongest he could have made. It brought 
back the brotherly Sahib of former days, and her conscience 
smote her. 

“ Was I unkind ? ” she said, turning back. “ Indeed, I 
did not mean to be ; but I thought you were honest enough, 
and knew me well enough, to come and say you had made a 
mistake. I was hurt that you should think me so small.” 
She hesitated. “ Sahib,” she said, “ Doris and I have been 
friends ever since we were children, and no man has ever 
known both of us without preferring her. I can scarcely 
believe that any man will have the luck to win her, but I 
could not be jealous of Doris — ” 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 


327 


She stopped short. At Christmas she could have said 
the words with perfect truth, but were they true now? The 
question flashed like lightning through her mind, and the 
Sahib watched her with intense interest while she answered 
it. Her face grew very pale, and her lips trembled. She 
leaned her arm against the mantelpiece. 

“ Sahib,” she said, “ life gets so complicated, and it is so 
difficult to tell what one is bound to say. You asked me if 
— if — there was somebody else. There is somebody else; 
there was then. I did not lie to you. I did not know. 
And even now — he — has not said — ” 

She broke off abruptly, and left the room. 

The Sahib lifted up the book she had laid down, and 
carefully read the title-page again, without really seeing 
one word. The question had indeed been settled for him, 
and at that moment he would have given wellnigh every- 
thing he possessed, if he could have been the man to win 
and marry Mona Maclean. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 

It was the luncheon-hour, and the winter term was draw- 
ing to a close. The dissecting-room was deserted by all save 
a few enthusiastic students who had not yet wholly exhausted 
the mysteries of Meckel’s ganglion, the branches of the in- 
ternal iliac, or the plantar arch. For a long time a hush of 
profound activity had hung over the room, and the silence 
had been broken only by the screams of a parrot and the 
cry of the cats’-meat-man in the street below ; but by de- 
grees the demoralising influence of approaching holidays 
had begun to make itself felt ; in fact, to be quite frank, 
the girls were gossipping. 

It was the dissector of Meckel’s ganglion who began it. 

“ If you juniors want a piece of advice,” she said, laying 
down her forceps, — “ a thing, by the way, which you never 
do want, till an examination is imminent, and even then 


328 


MONA MACLEAN. 


you don’t take it, — you may have it for nothing. Form a 
clear mental picture of the spheno-maxillary fossa. When 
you have that, the neck of anatomy is broken. Miss Warden, 
suppose, just to refresh all our memories, you run over the 
foramina opening into the spheno-maxillary fossa, and the 
structures passing through them.” 

The dissector of the plantar arch groaned. 

“Don't ! ” she entreated in assumed desperation. “ With 
the examination so near, it makes me quite ill to be asked a 
question. I should not dare to go up, if Miss Clark were 
not going.” 

“ I should not have thought she was much stand-by.” 

“ Oh, but she is ! If she passes, I may hope to. I was 
dissecting the popliteal space the other day, and she asked 
me if it was Scarpa’s triangle ! ” 

A murmur of incredulity greeted this statement. 

“ She has not had an inferior extremity,” said a young 
girl, turning away from the cupboard in which the skeleton 
hung. “ You can only learn your anatomy by dissecting 
yourself.” 

“ It is a heavy price to pay,” said she of the spheno- 
maxillary fossa; “and a difficult job at the best, I should 
fancy.” 

There was a general laugh, in which the girl at the cup- 
board joined. 

“ Where it is completed by the communicating branch 
of the dorsalis pedis,” said Miss Warden irrelevantly. “I 
am no believer in Ellis and Ford myself,” she went on, 
looking up, “ but I do think one might learn from it the 
general whereabouts of Scarpa’s triangle.” 

“Come now, Miss Warden, you know we don’t believe 
that story. Have you decided whether to go to Edinburgh 
or Glasgow for your second professional, Miss Philips ? ” 

“ Oh, Glasgow,” said the investigator of the internal 
iliac, almost impatiently. “ I need all the time I can get. 
I have not begun to read the brain and special sense. 
Where can one get a bullock’s eye ? ” 

“ At Dickson’s, I fancy.” 

“ And where can one see a dissection of the ear ? It is 
so unsatisfactory getting it up from books.” 

“ There is a model of it in the museum.” 

“ Model ! ” The word was spoken with infinite contempt. 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 


329 


“ Do yon know what it is, Miss Philips ? You are thrown 
away on those Scotch examinations. Why did you not go 
in for the London degree ? ” 

“ Matric.,” was the laconic response. 

“ Oh, the Matric. is nothing ! ” 

“ Besides, I could not afford the time. Six years, even 
if one was lucky enough not to get ploughed.” 

“ Talking of being ploughed,” said a student who had 
just entered the room, “ you won’t guess whom I have just 
met? — Miss Maclean.” 

“ Miss Maclean ? — in London ? ” 

“ In the chemical laboratory at the present moment. 
She is going up for her Intermediate again, in July.” 

“ Who is Miss Maclean?” asked the girl who had been 
studying the skeleton. 

There was a general exclamation. 

“ Not to know her, my dear,” said the new-comer, 
“argues yourself — quite beneath notice. Miss Maclean is 
one of the Intermediate Chronics.” 

“ Miss Maclean is an extremely clever girl,” said Miss 
Warden. 

“ When I first came to this school,” said Miss Philips, 
“ I wrote my people that women medical students were very 
much like other folks, but that one or two were really splen- 
did women ; and I instanced Miss Maclean.” 

“ The proof of the student is the examination.” 

“ That is not true — except very broadly. You passed 
your Intermediate at the first go-off, but none of us would 
think of comparing you to Miss Maclean.” 

“ Thank you,” was the calm reply. “ I always did ap- 
preciate plain-speaking. It is quite true that I never went 
in for very wide reading, nor for the last sweet thing in 
theories ; but I have a good working knowledge of my 
subjects all the same — at least I had at the time I 
passed.” 

“ Miss Maclean is too good a student ; that is what is the 
matter with her.” 

The dissector of Meckel’s ganglion laughed. “ Miss 
Maclean is awfully kind and helpful,” she said ; “ but I 
shall never forget the day when I asked her to show me the 
nerve to the vastus externus on her own dissection. She 
drew aside a muscle with hooks, and opened up a compli- 


330 


MONA MACLEAN. 


cated system of telephone wires that made my hair stand 
on end.” 

“ I know. For one honest nerve with a name, she shows 
you a dozen that are nameless ; and the number of abnor- 
malities that she contrives to find is simply appalling.” 

“ In other words, she has a spirit of genuine scientific 
research,” said Miss Philips. “ It does not say much for 
the examiners that such a woman should fail.” 

A student who had been studying a brain in the corner 
of the room, looked up at this moment, tossing back a 
mass of short dark hair from her refined and intellectual 
face. 

“ Poor examiners,” she said. “ Who would wish to stand 
in their shoes ? Miss Maclean may be a good student, and 
she may have a spirit of genuine scientific research ; but no- 
body fails for either of those reasons. Miss Maclean sees 
things very quickly, and she sees them in a sense exactly. 
She puts the nails in their right places, so to speak, and 
gives them a rap with the hammer ; she fits in a great many 
more than there is any necessity for, but she does not drive 
them home. Then, when the examination comes, some of 
the most essential ones have dropped out, and have to be 
looked for all over again. It was a fatal mistake, too, to 
begin her Final work before she had passed her Intermediate. 
I don’t know what subject Miss Maclean failed in, but I am 
not in the least surprised that she failed.” 

Her audience heard the last sentence in a kind of night- 
mare ; for Mona had entered the room, and was standing 
listening, a few yards behind the speaker. The girl turned 
round quickly, when she saw the conscious glances. 

“ I did not know you were there, Miss Maclean,” she 
said proudly, indignant with herself for blushing. 

Mona drew a stool up to the same table, and sat down. 

“ It is I who ought to apologise, Miss Lascelles,” she 
said, “ for listening to remarks that were not intended for 
me ; but I was so much interested that I did not stop to 
think. One so seldom gets the benefit of a perfectly frank 
diagnosis.” 

“ I don’t know that it was perfectly frank. Some one 
was abusing the examiners, and I spoke in hot blood — ” 

“ It seems to me that statements made in hot blood are 
the only ones worth listening to — if we have a germ of 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 


331 


poetry in us. Statements made in cold blood always prove 
to be truisms when you come to analyse them.” 

“ And one thing I said was not even true — I was surprised 
! when you failed.” 

Mona was not listening. “ What you said was extremely 
I sensible,” she said, “ but so neatly put that one is instinct- 
! ively on one’s guard against it. It is a dreary metaphor — 

I driving in nails ; and, if it be a just one, it describes exactly 
! my quarrel with Medicine, from an examination point of 
I view. Why does not one big nail involve a lot of little 
! ones ? Or rather, why may we not develop like trees, taking 
what conduces to our growth, and rejecting the rest ? Why 
are we doomed to make pigeon - holes, and drive in 
nails?” 

“ But the knowledge a doctor requires is in a sense unlike 
any other. He wants it, not for himself, but for other 
people.” 

“ And so we come back to the eternal question, whether 
a man benefits humanity more by self-development or self- 
sacrifice ? Does knowledge that is fastened on as an append- 
age ever do any good ? Have not the great specialists, the 
men of genius^ who are looked upon as towers of strength, 
worked mainly at the thing they enjoyed working at ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Miss Lascelles, “ but they passed their ex- 
aminations first.” 

Mona laughed. “ True,” she said, “ I own the soft im- 
peachment ; and there you have the one and only argument 
in favour of girls beginning to study Medicine when they 
are quite young.. It is so easy for them to get up facts and 
tables.” . 

“ I think one requires to get up less, in the way of facts 
j and tables, for the London than for any other examination. 
It is more honest, more searching, than any other.” 

Mona smiled— a very sad little smile. “ Perhaps,” she 
said. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by knowledge that is 
fastened on as an appendage never doing any good,” said 
the girl who held that the proof of the student was the ex- 
amination ; “ I don’t profess to have found any mysterious 
food for my intellectual growth in the action and uses of 
rhubarb, but I don’t find rhubarb any the less efficacious on 
that account when I prescribe it.” 


332 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ But you open up a pretty wide field for thought when 
you ask yourself, Why rhubarb rather than anything else ? ” 

“ It is cheap,” said the girl frivolously, “ and it is always 
at hand.” 

No one vouchsafed any reply to this. 

“ You have surely done enough to those brain sections 
foi one day, Miss Lascelles,” said Mona; “won’t you come 
and lunch with me ? It is only a few minutes’ walk to my 
rooms.” 

The girl hesitated. “ Thank you,” she said suddenly, 
“ I will. I shall be ready in five minutes.” 

She slipped from her high stool, and stood putting away 
her things — a tiny figure scarcely bigger than a child, yet 
full of character and dignity. 

“ In the meantime come and demonstrate this tiresome 
old artery, Miss Maclean,” said Miss Philips. “ I am getting 
hopelessly muddled.” 

“If you knew the surroundings in which I have spent 
the last six months,” said Mona, smiling, “ you would not 
expect me to know more than the name of the internal iliac 
artery. I shall be very glad to come and look at your dis- 
section though, if I may.” 

“You see I have not forgotten the kindness you showed 
me when I first began.” 

“I don’t remember any kindness on my part. You 
were kind enough to let me refresh my memory on your 
dissection, I know.” 

“ That’s one way of putting it. Do you remember my 
asking you how closed tubes running through the body 
could do it any good ? ” 

“ Yes, and I remember how delighted I was with the in- 
telligence of the question. Heigh-ho ! what a child you 
seemed to me then ! ” 

She took the forceps in her hand, and in a moment the 
old enthusiasm came back. 

t “ How very interesting ! ” she said. “ Look at this deep 
epigastric.” 

And a quarter of an hour had passed before she remem- 
bered her guest and her luncheon. 

“ I am so sorry,” she said, pulling off the sleeves she had 
donned for the moment. “Is anybody going to dissect 
during the summer term ? Shall I be able to get a part ? ” 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 


333 


The two girls walked home together to Mona’s rooms, 
Miss Lascelles’s diminutive figure, in its half-aesthetic, half- 
babyish gown and cape, forming a curious contrast to that 
of her companion. 

“ I really do apologise most humbly for my thoughtless- 
ness,” said Mona. 

“ Don’t,” replied the other, swinging her ungloved hand 
and raising her slow pleasant voice more than was necessary 
in the quiet street ; “ one does not see too much enthusiasm 
in the world. It is good to have you back.” 

“ I feel rather like a Rip Van Winkle, as you may sup- 
pose.” 

“ Yes. The students seem to get younger every year. 
It is a terrible pity. One does not see how they are ever to 
take the place of some of the present seniors. What can 
they know of life ? ” 

“ And, as a natural consequence, the supply of medical 
women will exceed the demand in the next ten years — in 
this country. After that, things will level themselves, I 
suppose ; but at present, if a woman is to succeed, she must 
be better than the average man.” 

“ Whereas at present we are getting mainly average 
women, and of course the average woman is inferior to the 
average man.” 

“ Heretic ! ” 

“ Oh, but wait till women have had their chance ! 
When they are really educated, things will be very dif- 
ferent.” 

“ Do you think so ? If I did not believe in women as 
they are now, apart from a mythical posse , I should be mis- 
erable indeed. I have a great respect for higher education, 
but there is such a thing as Mother Nature as well.” 

“ Even Mother Nature has only had her say for half the 
race.” 

They entered the house, and presently sat down to the 
luncheon-table. 

“ Explanations are always a mistake,” said Miss Lascelles 
suddenly. 

“ Always,” said Mona, “ and especially when there is no 
occasion for them.” 

“ — but I should like to tell you that I thought out that 
nail metaphor (God forgive the term !) in relation to myself 


331 


MONA MACLEAN. 


originally. It is because I am so familiar with that weak- 
ness in myself, that I recognised, or fancied 1 recognised, it 
in you. I think our minds are somewhat alike, though, of 
course, you have a much fresher and brighter way of looking 
at things than I.” 

“ — and I am the profounder student,” she added men- 
tally. 

“Explanations are not always a mistake,” said Mona. 
“ It was very kind of you to make that one. I should be 
glad to think my cast of mind was like yours, but I am 
afraid it is only the superficial resemblance which Giusep- 
pe’s violins bore to those of the master.” 

“ It is pleasant, is it not, to leave dusty museums now 
and then, and feel science growing all around one ? And 
what I love about London University is, that it allows for 
that kind of thing in its Honours papers. It is a case of 
‘ This ought ye to have done, and not have left the other 
undone.’ But it is difficult to find time for both.” 

“ Ay, especially when one has to find time for so many 
other things as well.” 

“ Nicht tvahr ? I feel that intensely. I hate to be in- 
sulated. I must touch at more points than one. But I do 
try to work conscientiously, or rather I don’t try. It is my 
nature. Study is a pure delight to me.” 

“ I expect you will be taking honours in all four sub- 
jects.” 

“I find it a great help in any case to do the honours 
work : it is so much more practical and useful ; but it does 
take a lot of time. I find it impossible to work more than 
ten hours a-day — ” 

Mona laid down the fish-slice in horror. 

“ Ten hours a-day ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ Yes, I tried twelve, but I could not keep it up.” 

“ I should hope not. I call eight hours spurting. I 
only read for six, as a rule, and for the last fortnight before 
an examination, only two.” 

“Why?” 

“ I can’t read at the end. That is the ruin of me. Up 
to the last fortnight I seem to know more than most of my 
fellow-students ; but then I collapse, while they — they with- 
draw into private life. What mystic rites and incantations 
go on there I can’t even divine ; but they emerge all armed 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 335 

cap-a-pie , conquering and to conquer, while I crawl out 
from my lethargy to fail.” 

“ You have the consolation of knowing that you really 
know your work better than they.” 

“Do you know, I have had nearly enough of that kind 
of consolation ? I could make shift now to do with an in- 
ferior, more tangible kind.” 

“ You will get that too this time.” 

Mona sighed. “ How I hope so ! ” she said. “ Have 
some more Chablis, and let us drink to our joint suc- 
cess.” 

“ I confess I was rather surprised that Miss Reynolds 
passed. I am not given to meddling in other people’s af- 
fairs ; but, if Miss Reynolds is ever to take her degree at 
all, it was quite time you came back. Have you seen her 
yet?” 

“ Only for a few minutes. She is coming to spend the 
evening with me.” 

“ You know she used to hide a capacity for very earnest 
work behind an aggravatingly frivolous exterior. Now it is 
just the other way. She professes to be in earnest, but I am 
sure she is doing nothing. You will wonder how I know, 
when I am not at hospital ; but quite a number of the stu- 
dents have spoken of it. She never read widely. The 
secret of her success was that she took good notes of the 
lectures, and then got them up. But now they say she is 
taking no notes at all, scarcely. It was very much against 
her, of course, coming in in the middle of term ; but one 
would have predicted that that would only have made her 
work the harder.” 

“ I don’t think so. That is not what I should have pre- 
dicted. She really worked too hard last summer, and a 
thorough reaction is a good sign. I think that is quite suf- 
ficient to Recount for what you say. Miss Reynolds is a 
healthy animal, and one may depend upon her instincts to 
be pretty correct. She will accomplish all the more in the 
end, for letting her mind lie fallow this year.” 

But though Mona spoke with apparent certainty, she 
felt rather uneasy. Lucy’s letters had been few and unsat- 
isfactory of late ; and her manner, when she met her old 
friend at the station, had been more unsatisfactory still. 

“I can’t force her confidence,” Mona thought, when 


336 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Miss Lascelles was gone ; “ but I hope she will tell me what 
is the matter. Poor little soul ! ” 

It was pretty late in the evening when Lucy arrived, 
pale and tired. “ I have kept you waiting for dinner,” she j 
said ; “ I am so sorry. A fractured skull came in just as I 
was leaving, and I waited to see them trephine. They don’t 
think it will be successful, and — it made me rather faint. 
But it’s an awfully neat operation.” 

Mona went to the table and poured out a glass of wine. 

“ Drink that,” she said, “ and then come to my bedroom and 
have a good splash. I will do all the talking during dinner ; 
and when you are quite rested, you shall tell me the news.” 

“ Life will be a different thing, now you are back,” Lucy 
said, as they seated themselves at the table. “ What lovely 
flowers ! ” 

“ You ought to admire them. Aunt Maud sent them 
from your beloved Cannes. I do so admire that Frisia. It 
is white and virginal, like Doris.” 

The last remark was added hastily, for at the mention of 
Cannes, Lucy had blushed violently and incomprehensibly. 

“ I was at the school to-day,” Mona went on. 

“Were you really? It must have been horrid going 
back.” 

“It was very horrid to find the organic solutions in the 
chemical laboratory at such a low ebb. But I suppose they 
will be filled up again for the summer term.” 

“ Oh, you know all those stupid old tests ! ” 

“ It is precisely the part of the examination that I am 
most afraid of. I have not your luck — or power of divina- 
tion. Why don’t they ask us to find whether a hydroxyl 
group is present in a solution, or something of that kind ? ” 

“ Thank heaven, they don’t ! ” 

“ I wonder what a scientific chemist would say, if he were 
asked to identify two organic mixtures in an hour and a 
half ! ” 

“ I did it in half an hour.” 

“ Ja, aber ivie ? By tasting, and guessing, and adding I 
in KI, or perehloride of iron.” 

Lucy helped herself to more potato. 

“ I seem to have heard these sentiments before,” she 
said. 


THE DISSECTING-ROOM. 


337 


Mona laughed. “ Yes, and you are in a fair way to hear 
them pretty frequently again, unless you keep out of my 
way for the next four months.” 

“ Did you go into the dissecting-room ? ” 

“ Yes ; and what do you think I found them dissecting ? ” 

“ Anything new ? ” 

“ Quite, I hope, in that connection — my unworthy self,” 
and Mona told the story of her little adventure. 

“Well, really,” said Lucy, indignantly, “ those juniors 
want a good setting down. I never heard such a piece of 
barefaced impudence in my life. What on earth do they 
know about you, except that you are one of the best students 
in the School ? ” 

“ There, there, firebrand ! ” said Mona, much relieved to 
see the old Lucy again, “ I think you and I have been known 
to say as much as that of our betters. In truth, it did me 
a world of good. I was very morbid about going back to 
the anatomy-room — partly because I had got out of tune 
with the work, partly because I knew nobody would know 
what to say to me, and there would be an awkward choice 
between constrained remarks and more constrained silences. 
It was a great relief to find myself and my failures taken 
frankly for granted. How I wish people could learn that, 
unless they can be superlatively tactful, it is better not to be 
tactful at all ; for of tact it is more true than of anything 
else, that ars est celare artem. But, to return to the point 
we started from, there is a great deal of truth in what Miss 
Lascelles said. For the next four months I am going to 
spend my life driving in nails .” 

Lucy shivered. “ Couldn’t you screio them in ? ” she 
suggested. “ It would make so much less noise.” 

Mona reflected for a moment. “ No,” she said, “ there 
is something in the idea of a good sharp rap with the ham- 
mer that gives relief to my injured feelings.” And she 
brought her closed fist on the table with a force that sent a 
ruddy glow across her white knuckles. 

“ And now,” she said, “ it is your innings. I want to 
know so many things. How do you like hospital ? ” 

“ Oh, it is awfully interesting ; ” but Lucy’s manner was 
not enthusiastic. “ I spotted a presystolic murmur yester- 
day.” 

“H’m. Who said it was a presystolic? Did not you 
22 


338 


MONA MACLEAN. 


find it very cold coming back to London from the sunny 
South?” 

Lucy shivered again. “ It was horrid,” she said. 

“ And you really had a good, gay, light-hearted time?” 

It was a full minute before the girl answered. “ Oh 
yes,” she said hurriedly and emphatically. “ It was de- 
lightful. I — I was not thinking.” 

“ That is just what you were doing. A penny for your 
thoughts.” 

Again there was a silence. Evidently Lucy was strongly 
tempted to make a clean breast of it. 

“ I am in my father’s blackbooks,” she said at last. 

Mona looked at her searchingly. That the statement 
was true, she did not doubt ; but that this was the sole 
cause of Lucy’s evident depression, she did not believe for a 
moment. 

“ How have you contrived to get there ? ” she asked. 

“ It is not such a remarkable feat as you think. I went 
to Monte Carlo with the Munros.” 

“Did he object?” 

“ Awfully ! You see, when I came to write about it, I 
thought I would wait and tell them when I got home ; but 
Mr. Wilson, one of the churchwardens, saw me there, and 
the story leaked out.” 

“ But you did not play ? ” 

“ No — not to call playing. Evelyn was so slow — I pushed 
her money into place with the cue. But, my father does not 
think so much of that. It is my being there at all that he 
objects to.” 

“Just for once?” 

“ J ust for once. He said you would not have gone.” 

“ That is a profound mistake. I want very much to see 
a gambling-saloon, and I certainly should have gone. I will 
tell him so the first time I see him.” 

“ Oh, Mona, don’t ! What is the use ? Two blacks 
don’t make a white.” 

“ Truly ; but, on the other hand, you can’t make a black 
white by painting it. Your father thinks me so much bet- 
ter than I am, that he binds me over to be honest with him. 
Besides, I want to defend my point. Of course, I should 
not go if I thought it wrong. But, Lucy, that is not a thing 
to worry about. It can’t be undone now, even if you wished 


CONFIDENCES. 


339 


it ; and your father would be the last man in the world to 
want you to distress yourself fruitlessly. Of all the men I 
know, he is the most godlike, in his readiness to say, i Come 
j now, and let us reason together.’ ” 

“I am not distressing myself,” Lucy said, brightening 
I up with an evident effort. “ Did I ever tell you, Mona, 
I about the boy we met at Monte Carlo ? He had got into a 
fix and was nearly frantic. We begged Lady Munro to 
speak to him, and she invited him to Cannes, and ultimate- 
ly she and Sir Douglas sent him home. But it was such 
fun ! He proved to be a medical student, a St. Kunigonde’s 
man. I was alone in the sitting-room when he called — such 
a pretty sunny room it was, with a sort of general creamy- 
yellow tone that made my peacock dress simply lovely ! Of 
course we fell to comparing notes. He goes in for his sec- 
ond examination at the Colleges in July, and you should 
have seen his face when I told him I had passed my Inter- 
mediate M.B. Lond. ! I really believe it had never occurred 
to him that any woman under thirty, and devoid of spec- 
tacles, could go in for her Intermediate. He is coming to 
see me at the Hall.” 

A poorer counterfeit of Lucy’s racy way of telling a story 
could scarcely have been imagined. Mona wondered much, 
but she knew now that nothing more was to be got out of 
her friend that night. 


CHAPTER XLYIII. 

CONFIDENCES. 

It was a hot day in June, and “ blessed Bloomsbury ” 
was converted into one great bakehouse. The flags in 
Gower Street radiated out a burning glow ; the flower- 
sellers had much ado to preserve the semblance of fresh- 
ness in their dainty wares ; and those of the inhabitants 
who were the proud possessors of outside blinds were an 
object of envy to all their neighbours. 

Mona was sitting at her writing-table, pen in hand, and 
( with a formidable blue schedule before her. She was look- 


340 


MONA MACLEAN. 


ing out of the window, but in her mind’s eye the dusty, 
glaring street had given place to the breezy ramparts of 
Castle Maclean ; and, instead of the noise of the traffic, she 
heard the soft plash of the waves. Presently, she laid down 
her pen, and leaned against the scorching window-sill, with 
a smile, not on her lips, but in her eyes. 

“ My spirit and my God shall be 
My seaward hill, my boundless sea,” 

she quoted softly. 

“ What, Mona, caught poetising ! ” said Lucy, uncere- 
moniously entering the room. 

“ Far from it,” said Mona drily. “ I was engaged on the 
most prosaic work it is possible to conceive, filling in the 
schedule for my Intermediate. It seems to me that I have 
spent the greater part of my life filling in the schedule for 
my Intermediate. If I fail again I shall employ an aman- 
uensis for the sole purpose. Come and help me. Full 
Christian name and surname ? ” 

“ Mona Margaret Maclean.” 

“ Oh, drop the Margaret ! I am prepared to take the 
chance of there being another Mona Maclean. Age, last 
birthday ? ” 

“ Ninety-nine.” 

“No doubt I shall fill that into an Intermediate schedule 
some day, hut not yet awhile. I wonder if they will have 
reformed the Practical Chemistry by that time ? Or will 
the dear old M.B. Lond. have lost its cachet altogether ? It 
is warm to-day, is it not ? ” 

“ Frightfully ! I met Miss Lascelles just now, and she 
informed me, in her bell-like voice, that if we were quite 
civilised we should go about without any clothes at all just 
now. I told her I hoped the relics of barbarism would last 
out my time.” 

“ Then I presume Miss Lascelles will not throw her 
pearls before swine again. Are you going to hospital ? ” 

“ Not to-day. Hospital is unbearable in this weather. 
The air is thick with microbes.” 

Mona looked at her friend reflectively. “ Suppose you 
come down to Richmond with me,” she said, “and blow 
away a few of the microbes on the river ? ” 


CONFIDENCES. 


341 


“ Oh, Mona, how lovely ! But can you spare the time ? ” 

“ Yes, I began early to-day. But we will have some 
lunch first. In the meantime I will sing you my last song, 
and you shall criticise.” 

“ Are you still going on with your singing lessons ? I 
can’t think how you find time for it.” 

“ I think it saves time in the end. It is a grand safety- 
! valve ; and besides — a woman is robbed of half her armour 
if she cannot use her voice.” 

Her hands ran lightly up and down the keys of the piano, 
and she began to sing Schubert’s Ave Maria. 

“ Miss Dalrymple says that is my chef cTceuvref she said 
when she had finished. “ What think you ? ” 

But Lucy made no answer. 

“ Mona,” she said a minute later, “ do you think it is 
■ worth while to go on the river, after all ? It is rather a fag, 
i and why should we?” 

Her voice was husky, and suggestive of infinite weari- 
ness. Mona rose from the piano, and deliberately, almost 
brutally, took the girl’s face between her hands, and turned 
it to the light. She was not mistaken.’ The pretty eyes 
were dim with tears. 

“ Lucy,” she said, “ you and I have pretended long 
enough. What is the use of friendship, if we never fall 
back upon it in time of need ? I want you to tell me what 
it was that spoilt your visit to Cannes.” 

“ Nothing,” said Lucy, with burning face, “ unless, per- 
! haps, my own idiocy. Oh, Mona, you dear old bully, there 
is not anything to tell ! I thought I was always going to 
get the best of it with men, and now a man has got the best 
of it with me. It’s only fair. Now you know the whole 
story. Despise me as much as you like.” 

“When I take to despising people, I imagine I shall 
have to begin even nearer home than with my plucky little 
Lucy. Will it be any use to tell me about it, do you think? 
Or is the whole story better buried ? ” 

“ I can’t bury it. And yet there is positively nothing to 
tell. When I look back upon it all, I cannot honestly say 
that the flirtation went any farther than half-a-dozen others 
have gone; but this time, somehow, everything was dif- 
ferent.” 

“ Is he a friend of the Munros ? ” 


342 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Lucy nodded. “ Yes — you know — Mr. Monteith. He 
arrived at the hotel the night of our first dance. I was 
wearing my mermaid costume for the first time, and — I saw 
him looking at me again and again. He was not particu- I 
larly handsome, but there was a sort of bloom about him, 
don’t you know ? He made me feel so common and work- 
a-day. And then when I danced with him I felt as if I 
had never danced with a man in my life before. I did not 
see very much of him ; — Lady Munro was so particular ; — j 
but one afternoon a party of us walked up to the chapel on 
the hill, and he and I got apart from the others somehow. 
It was the first time I had seen the Maritime Alps, and I 
never again saw them as they were that day in the sunset [ 
light. It was like looking into a golden future. Well, he 
went away. I was awfully low-spirited for a day or two ; 
but somehow, whenever I thought of that evening on the 
hill, I felt as if the future was full of beautiful possibilities. 
One day we went to Monte Carlo, and there I met him 
again. He asked if I would like him to come back for a 
day or two to Cannes, and I said I did not care. He never ! 
came. Sometimes I wish I had begged him to, — yes, Mona, 

I have sunk as low as that — and sometimes I think he must 
have read my poor little secret all along, and I could kill 
myself for very shame. Oh, Mona, I wish you could take 
me out of myself ! ” 

“ You poor little soul ! Lucy, dear, it sounds very trite 
and commonplace ; but, by hook or by crook, you must get 
an interest in your hospital work, and go at it as hard as 
ever you can.” 

“ It is no use. I hate hospital. I wonder now how I 
ever could care so much about prizes and marks and exami- 
nations. It is all such child’s-play.” 

“ Yes ; but sorrow is not child’s-play, and pain and 
death are not child’s-play. It is only a question of working 
at it hard enough, old woman. You are bound to become 
interested in it in time, and that is the only way to get rid 
of yourself ; — though it is strange teaching, perhaps, to 
come from self-centred me. They say we women of this 
generation have sacrificed a good deal of our birthright; 
don’t let us throw away the grand compensation, the power 
to light our candles when our sun goes down. Do you re- 
member Werther’s description of the country lass whose 


CONFIDENCES. 


343 


sweetheart forsakes her, taking with him all the interest in 
her life? We at least have other interests, Lucy, and we 
can, if we try hard enough, turn the key on the suite of en- 
chanted rooms, and live in the rest of the house.” 

“ The rest of my house is a poky hole ! ” 

Mona sighed sympathetically. “ No matter,” she said 
resolutely; “we must just set to work, and make it some- 
thing better than a poky hole.” 

Further conversation was prevented for the time by the 
entrance of the luncheon-tray. 

“Well, is it to be Kichmond?” said Mona, when the 
meal was over. 

Lucy blushed. “ I have a great mind to go to hospital, 
after all,” she said. “ I don’t think it is quite so hot as it 
was.” 

“No, I think there is a suspicion of a breeze. Au re - 
voir ! Come back soon.” 

I wish I could honestly say that Mona profited as much 
by Lucy’s example as Lucy had by Mona’s preaching ; but 
I am forced to record that she did not open a book, nor re- 
turn to her little laboratory, for the rest of the day. For a 
long time she sat in her rocking-chair with a frown on her 
brow. “ I wonder if he has only been playing with her,” 
she said — “ the cad ! ” Then another thought crossed the 
outskirts of her mind. At first it scarcely entered the lim- 
its of her consciousness ; but, like the black dog in Faust , 
it went on and on, in ominous, ever-narrowing circles, and 
she was forced to recognise that she must grapple with it 
sooner or later. Then she put up her hands to cover her 
face, although there was no one there to see, and the ques- 
tion sounded in her very ears — “ What if he has only been 
playing with me ? ” 

What then, Mona ? Lock the door on the suite of en- 
chanted rooms, and live in the rest of the house ! But she 
never thought of her advice to Lucy. She threw herself 
on the couch, and lay there for a little while in an agony of 
shame. After all her lofty utterances, had she given her- 
self away to a man who had not even asked for her ? Why 
had he not spoken just one word, to save her from this 
torture ? 

By some curious chain of associations the words flashed 
into her mind — 


344 


MONA MACLEAN. 


« Denn, was man schwarz auf weiss besitzt, 

Kann man getrost nach Hause tragen.” 

She laughed a little breathlessly, and drew her hand 
across her damp forehead. 

“lama fool and a coward,” she said ; “ I will ask Dr. 
Alice Bateson to give me a tonic. What do mere words 
matter, after all, between people like him and me ? ” 

She walked up to a calendar that hung on the wall, and 
carefully counted the days till the second week in August. 
Then she sighed regretfully. 

“ Poor little Lucy,” she said, “ what an unsympathetic 
brute she must have thought me!” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE INTERMEDIATE. 

The classic precincts of Burlington House were once 
more invaded by a motley crowd of nervous, excited young 
men, who hung about the steps and entrance-hall, poring 
over their note-books, exchanging “ tips,” or coolly discuss- 
ing the points of the women. 

“ None of them are so good-looking as the little girl 
with the red hair, who was up last year,” Mona overheard 
one of them say, and she made a mental note to inform 
Lucy of her conquest. 

About half-a-dozen girls were already assembled in the 
cloak-room when she entered 

“ Well, Miss Maclean, how are you feeling?” 

“ Hardened,” said Mona, taking off her hat, but she did 
not look particularly hardened. 

“ * In my heart if calm at all, 

If any calm, a calm despair,’ ” 

quoted Miss Lascelles. 

“ Do tell me about the cardiac branches of the pneumo- 
gastric,” said some one. 

Miss Lascelles proceeded to give the desired information, 


THE INTERMEDIATE. 345 

while the others discussed the never-settled question of the 
number of marks required for a pass. 

“ It seems to me that x equals the most you can make 
plus one,” and Mona sighed resignedly. 

“Now, ladies, please,” said an imposing individual in 
broadcloth, and the little party was marshalled through the 
hall to the examination-room. 

“ Why has Miss Maclean done her hair like that ? ” said 
a student with a mind at leisure from itself. “ It is not half 
so becoming as the old way.” 

Nor was it. Mona had made the alteration in order to 
change the outline of her head as much as possible, for she 
was most anxious that Dr. Dudley should not recognise her, 
in surroundings that did not admit of an explanation on 
her part. She did not venture to raise her eyes as she en- 
tered the room, and, as soon as she was seated, she bent low 
over the pink and green cahiers that lay on her desk. A 
minute later the examination papers were distributed, and 
for three hours neither Dudley nor any other human being 
had any existence for her. She wrote on till the last mo- 
ment — wrote on, in fact, till the examiner, Dudley’s “ monu- 
ment of erudition,” came up and claimed her paper. 

“ I think I have seen you before,” he said kindly. 

“ Twice,” said Mona, smiling, “ and I am afraid you 
are in a fair way to see me again.” 

He looked at her with some amusement and interest in 
his shrewd Scotch face. 

“ I don’t think you are much afraid of that,” he 
said. 

Mona followed him with her eye, as he turned away, and 
in another moment saw him at the other end of the room, 
shaking hands very cordially with Dr. Dudley. She turned 
her back, and, hastily gathering together her pens and col- 
oured chalks, she left the room. Her heart beat fast with 
apprehension till she reached the open air; and, as she 
walked up to Regent Street for lunch, she fancied every 
moment that she heard his step behind her. 

But she need not have feared. For the three days that 
the written examination lasted, Dudley was aware of a 
patch of colour at the opposite side of the hall where the 
women sat ; but he was too indifferent and preoccupied to 
investigate its details. He felt so old among those boys and 


346 


MONA MACLEAN. 


girls ; his one wish was to get the examination over, and be 
done with it. 

Now that she knew where he sat, Mona had no difficulty 
in avoiding his short-sighted eyes. In fact, as time went 
on, she grew holder, and loved to look on from a distance, 
while Dudley’s fellow-students gathered round and as- 
sailed him with a torrent of questions, the moment each 
paper was over. It was pleasant to see his relations with 
those lads, — the friendly raillery which they took in such 
good part. Clearly they looked upon him as a very good 
fellow, and a mine of wisdom. 

“ You are mere boys to him,” thought Mona proudly. 
“ He is willing to play with you ; but I am his friend ! ” 

Wednesday evening came at last, and with a mingled 
sense of excitement, and of weariness that amounted to 
physical pain, Mona went down the steps. 

Lucy was awaiting her in the street, and they betook 
themselves to the nearest shop where they could get after- 
noon tea. 

“ Well,” said Lucy, “what is your final judgment?” 

Mona sighed. “ Anatomy, very fair,” she said — “ morn- 
ing paper especially ; Physiology — between you and me and 
the lamp-post — the best papei I ever did in my life ; Chem- 
istry, safe, I think ; Materia Medica — better at least than 
last time.” 

“ Brava! ” cried Lucy. 

“ Oh, don’t ! I ought not to have said so much. It is 
tempting the Fates.'” 

“No matter. With a record like that you can afford to 
tempt the Fates. Oh, Mona, I do hope you have got the 
Physiology medal ! ” She raised her teacup. “ Plere’s to 
Mona Maclean, Gold Medallist in Physiology.” 

“ No, no, no,” said Mona. “ My paper is not on those 
lines at all, and the Practical is still to come.” 

“And who is better prepared for that than you, with 
your private laboratory, and all the rest of it ? ” 

“ I have often told you that the best work of the world 
is rarely done with the best instruments.” 

Lucy groaned. “ If three days’ examination won’t keep 
her from moralising,” she said, “ it may safely be predicted 
that nothing will. What a prospect ! ” 

Mona wrote to Rachel that night, fixing the day and 


THE INTERMEDIATE. 


347 


hour of her arrival at Borrowness some three weeks later ; 
and the next day she went down to Bournemouth to visit 
some friends. Only a very unlikely chance could have 
taken Dudley to Bournemouth too, but Mona never saw a 
tall and lanky figure on the cliffs, without a sudden wild 
fancy that it might be he. There was a good deal of glad- 
ness in her agitation at these times, but she did not really 
want to see him there. No, no ; let things take their 
course ! Let it all come about quietly and naturally, at 
dear old Castle Maclean, in the second week of August ! 

She returned to town a few days before the Practical 
Examination, and found a letter from Rachel awaiting her. 

“ My dear Cousin, — I was very pleased to get your 
letter, telling me when you were coming to pay me a visit ; 
but there has been a great change in my life since last I 
wrote you. You know I have never been the same being 
since you went away. That Miss Jenkins, that you thought 
so much of, did very well in the shop, and was good at fig- 
ures, but she was not like one of my own folk. Then she 
was a U. P., and she had friends of her own that she always 
wanted to go to in the evening ; and many’s the time I’ve 
been so dull that if it hadn’t been for Sally I believe I’d 
have gone clean daft. I wrote and told Mary Ann about it, 
and she wrote back saying, wouldn’t I go and join her in 
America ? Of course I never thought of such a thing, but 
I spoke to my friends about her writing, and a few days 
after I got a very good offer for the good-will of the busi- 
ness. It really was like a leading, but I never thought of 
that at the time. Then, without waiting to hear from me, 
Mary Ann wrote again, begging me to come. There was 
word of a baby coming, and naturally at such a time she 
took a longing for her own flesh and blood. She never was 
one of your independent ones. Then I began to think I 
would like to go, but I’d an awful dread of the sea and the 
strangeness. Well, would you believe it? four days ago, 
Mrs. Anderson came in and told me her brother was sailing 
to America in about ten days, with all his family from Glas- 
gow, and he would be very glad to look after me if I would 
take my passage by the same steamer. So that settled it 
somehow. It’s a queer-like thing, after sitting still all one’s 
life, to make such a move all in a minute ; but there seems 


348 


MONA MACLEAN. 


to be the hand of Providence in it all, and Mary Ann says 
some of their acquaintances are most genteel, and the min- 
ister of the Baptist Chapel preaches the word with power. 

“ So you see, my dear, I shall be sailing from Glasgow 
the very day you were meaning to come to me. I am all in 
an upturn, as you may think, with a sale in the house and 
what not ; but if you would come a week sooner, I’d be 
very pleased to see you. If you could have been happy to 
stay with me, I never would have thought of all this ; but I 
never could have gone on as I was doing, though it is a ter- 
rible trial to break off all the old ties. 

“ You must write to me often and tell me what you are 
doing, and whether there is any word of your settling down 
in life. Your affectionate Cousin, 

“ Bachel Simpson. 

“ P. S . — Do you know of anything that is good for the 
sea-sickness ? ” 

It was some time before Mona grasped the full conse- 
quences of this letter. She even allowed herself to wonder 
for a moment whether Mary Ann’s difficulty in finding a 
lady-help had anything to do with this cordial invitation. 
But that fancy was soon crowded out of her mind by the 
formidable situation that had to be faced. NTo Bachel, no 
shop, — nothing more outside of herself to blush for ; but, 
on the other hand, no wind-swept coast, no Castle Maclean, 
no long-postponed explanation, no Dr. Dudley ! The truth 
came upon her with a force that was absolutely crushing. 

“ I might have known it,” she said, looking out of the 
window, with white lips and unseeing eyes. “ I was count- 
ing on it too much. It has been the pivot on which my 
whole life has turned.” 

Then a bright idea occurred to her. Auntie Bell had 
plenty of spare room in the farmhouse, and she was sure the 
dear old woman would be glad to have a visit from her at 
any time. 

But, when she timidly suggested it, Auntie Bell wrote 
back in great distress to say that, after much persuasion, she 
had let her up-stairs rooms to an artist for August. She 
would be so proud and pleased if Mona would come to her 
in September. 


SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 


349 


But Mona had promised to join the Munros on the 15th 
of August. 

There still remained the chance of the Practical Exami- 
nation ; but Mona knew by experience that the initials D. 
and M. came sufficiently far apart in the alphabet to make 
it very unlikely that the owners of them would be called up 
at the same time. 

Nor were they. Neither at Burlington House, nor at the 
Embankment, did Mona see a trace of her friend. At the 
Practical Physiology examination, all the students were 
called up together, but Mona did not take the pass paper; 
she went m for honours the following day, and her first 
glance round the handful of enthusiasts assembled for six 
hours’ unbroken work was sufficient to convince her that 
Dr. Dudley was not there. In this subject at least he had 
evidently contented himself with a pass. In the bitterness 
of her disappointment, she cared little for the results of the 
examination, and so worked coolly with a steady hand. 
When she was called up for her Viva she vaguely felt 
that she was doing better than her best, but she did not 
care. 

At last it was over — the examination which had once 
seemed to be wellnigh the aim and end of existence ; and 
now, though conscious of having done well, she threw her- 
self on the hearthrug, in a fit of depression that was almost 
maddening. 

“ Oh God,” she groaned, “ help me ! I cannot bear it ! ” 


CHAPTER L. 

SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 

Once more the lists were posted at the door of the uni- 
versity, and once more a group of eager faces had gathered 
round to read them. Presently a tall figure came swinging 
down the street, and, ignoring the Pass-list altogether, made 
straight for the Honours. 

It was all right, — better than he had dared to hope. 


350 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Anatomy. 

First Class. 

Dudley, Ralph, St. Kunigonde’s Hospital. 

Exhibition and Gold Medal. 

Ralph’s heart gave a great leap of thanksgiving. 

“ Now,” he said almost audibly, “ I can go down to Bor- 
rowness, and ask Miss Maclean in so many words to be my 
wife.” • 

As if the paper in front of him had heard the words, his 
eye caught the name Maclean below his own. He looked 
again. Yes, there was no imagination about it. 

Physiology. 

First Class. 

Maclean, Mona, Lond. Sch. of Med. for Women. 

Exhibition and Gold Medal. 

Mona Maclean — her name was Margaret. She had told 
him so that day at Castle Maclean, and he had ceen it in a 
well-worn prayer-book in Mr. Ewing’s church. But the co- 
incidence was a curious one. He turned sharply round and 
touched a fellow-student on the arm. 

“ Who,” he said hastily, “ is Miss Mona Maclean ? ” 

“ Miss Maclean ? Oh, she is one of their great dons at 
the Women’s School. She took a First Class in Botany the 
year I passed my Prel. Sci.” 

Certainly it was only a coincidence. No doubt this 
woman was an out-and-out blue-stocking, in spite of her 
pretty name ; and even in the matter of brains he did not 
believe she was a patch upon his princess. 

He knew his old aunt would be delighted to hear of his 
success, but he would not telegraph, lest by any chance the 
news should leak round to Mona. He wanted to tell her 
himself. She had been so interested the day he had told 
her the story of his life. He had not concealed its failures, 
and he wanted to tell her with his own lips of this first little 
bit of success. For, after all, it was a success to be M’Diar- 


SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 


351 


mid’s medallist. No man who had scamped his work could 
possibly hold such a position as that ; and Miss Maclean was 
so quick, so sympathetic, she would see in a moment how 
much it meant. It seemed almost too good to be true, that 
this time to-morrow he would be sitting with her, alone on 
her storm-tost battlements, free to talk of his love, and to 
draw her secret from half- willing lips — free to build all sorts 
of castles in the air, and to sketch the bold outline of a per- 
fect future. 

He looked at his watch and wondered how he was to 
exist till eight o’clock, when the night express left for Ed- 
inburgh. He scarcely heard the congratulations that were 
heaped upon him by one and another of his friends, so eager 
was he to hear what she would say. 

The examination was over now — well over. He was free 
for the first time to give the reins to his thoughts, and to 
follow whithersoever they beckoned ; and a wild dance 
they led him, over giddy heights that made his brain reel 
and his pulse leap high with infinite longing. The dusty 
streets might have been Elysian fields for all he knew ; in 
so far as he saw outward things at all, he saw them through 
a rose-hued medium of love. Introspection was almost dead 
within him — almost, but not quite — enough remained to fill 
him with in tensest gratitude that this complete abandon- 
ment should have come to him : — 

“ Oh, let the solid ground not fail beneath my feet, 

Before my life has found what some have found so sweet ! ” 

How often he had uttered those words, scarcely daring to 
hope that his prayer would be granted ; and now he had 
found what he longed for, and surely no man before had 
ever found it so sweet. 

“ Hullo ! cutting old friends already ? ” said a merry 
voice in his ear. “ Some people are very quickly blinded 
by success.” 

“ Why, Melville, what brings you here ? ” 

“ I was on my way to the university to find out how 
many medals you have got. Your face proclaims four at 
least.” 

“ I am sorry it is so deceptive. I have only got one.” 

“ Anatomy ? ” 


352 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Anatomy.” 

“ Played ! Anything else ? ” 

“Mo. A second class in chemistry.” 

“And that’s nothing? We have grown very high and 
mighty all of a sudden. Who’s got the medal in physi- 
ology?” 

“ A woman ! ” 

“ Name ? ” 

“ Miss — Maclean, I think ; ” and Dudley was amazed to 
find himself blushing. 

“ When do you go down ? ” 

“ To-night.” 

“ That’s right ! But look here, dear boy. Take a 
word of advice from me. Keep out of the way of the 
siren ! ” 

“ You go to — ! ” Dudley stopped short, but his eyes 
flashed fire. 

“ It’s a curious thing,” he observed cynically, “ how a man 
can go through half his life without learning to hold his 
tongue about his private affairs.” 

Melville raised his eyebrows, and whistled a few notes of 
a popular music-hall ditty. 

For about a hundred yards the two walked on in silence. 
Then Ralph put his hand in his friend’s arm. 

“ Don’t talk to me about it, Jack,” he said, “ there’s a 
good fellow, but I have been the most confounded snob that 
ever lived.” 

Nothing more was said till they parted at the street 
corner, and then Melville stood and watched his friend out 
of sight. 

“ Another good man gone wrong!” he observed philo- 
sophically, and, shrugging his shoulders, he made his way 
back to the hospital. 

The long day and the interminable night were over. 

“ Even an Eastern Counties train 
Must needs come in at last.” 

And Dudley did actually find himself alighting at the 
familiar little station on a bright August morning. Never 
before had his home seemed so attractive to him. The 


SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 


353 


strong east wind was like wine, fleecy clouds chased each 
other across a brilliant blue sky, and the first mellow glow 
was just beginning to tinge the billowy acres of corn. The 
tall trees at the foot of his aunt’s garden threw broken 
shadows across the quiet lawn. The beds were bright with 
old-fashioned flowers, and the house, with its pillared por- 
tico, rose, white and stately, beyond the sweep of the car- 
riage-drive. 

“ Welcome home, doctor!” said the gate-keeper’s wife, 
curtseying low as Ralph passed the lodge. “ You’re gey 
late this year. Jeames cam’ through frae’ Edinbro’ a fort- 
night syne.” 

“ I suppose so,” said Ralph, smiling pleasantly ; “ how 
is he getting on ? ” 

“Vera weel, I thank ye, sir! He’s brocht a prize buik 
wi’ him this time ; ” and the good woman’s face beamed 
with triumph. To the great pride of his family, the gate- 
keeper’s son was studying “ to be a meenister.” 

Mrs. Hamilton came out to the door to meet her nephew, 
and a pang shot through Ralph’s heart as he saw how frail 
she looked. 

“ Why, I declare,” he said, putting his arm round her 
affectionately, “my old lady has been missing her scape- 
grace.” 

“ Conceited as ever,” she said, returning his caress, but 
the rare tears stole into her eyes as she spoke. 

“You dear old thing! Why didn’t you send for me? 
And Burns, too, promised to let me know.” 

“ Nonsense, laddie ! There’s nothing wrong. I have 
never been ill. I am getting to be an old woman, that’s all ; 
and I am not so fond of east winds as I once was. Run up- 
stairs while Dobson infuses the tea, and then come and tell 
me all about the examination.” 

The breakfast parlour was bright with flowers, and the 
table was laden with good things. The window stood open, 
and the bees hummed in and out in a flood of sunshine. 

“ Grouse already ! ” exclaimed Ralph. 

“ Yes ; Lord Kirkhope and Sir Roderick have each sent 
a brace.” 

“ What it is to live with the belle of the country-side, as 
they say in the story-books ! ” 

“What it is to live with a spoilt and impertinent 
23 


354 


MONA MACLEAN. 


nephew ! Very well done, Ralph ! I have no patience with 
a man who does not know how to carve.” 

“ Carving ought to come easy to the G-old Medallist in 
anatomy, oughtn’t it? ” he said mischievously. 

“ Are you really that ? ” 

“ At your service.” 

“ And you have not shown it to me yet ! ” 

“ Bless the old darling ! I shall not see it myself till 
May. The object of the medal is to remind a man of the 
mountain of learning he has contrived to — forget ! ” 

Mrs. Hamilton laughed. 

“ How long a holiday can you take, Ralph ? ” she asked 
presently. 

“ A month. I ought to get back to hospital then, if you 
are — sick of my company.” 

“ Oh, I’ll be that, never fear ! and I suppose you would 
have no objection to spending a few weeks with me up in 
the Highlands, when you get a little rested. It’s not like me, 
but I’ve a great longing for a change.” 

“ I daresay it would be a good plan,” he answered very 
gravely ; and, quick as she was, she did not guess the throb 
of dismay that shot through his heart. 

“ You do look tired, Ralph, in spite of yourself,” she 
said presently. “ Your room is all ready. Go and lie down 
for a few hours.” 

“Ho, no,” he said restlessly. “ I can’t sleep during the 
day. Let us have a drive ; and this afternoon, while you 
have your nap, I will go and smool on the beach. That rests 
me more than anything.” 

Smool ! Oh Ralph ! 

He never doubted that he would find Mona at Castle 
Maclean. She went there so often, and now she must know 
well that any day might bring him, and that he would seek 
her there. He had rehearsed the meeting so often in his 
mind ; and unconsciously he rehearsed it again this after- 
noon, as he strode down the little footpath that led through 
the fields to the sea. The tide was out. That was dis- 
appointing. Sunlit waves, rocking festoons of Fucus on 
their bosom, had always formed part of his mental picture ; 
but now the great brown trails hung, dry and motionless, 
from the burning rocks, in the strong afternoon sun. 


SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 


355 


Never mind ! It was of no consequence after all. Two 
minutes hence, he and she would have little thought to spare 
for the tide and the Fucus. Ralph quickened his steps and 
leapt up the side of the rock. 

But Castle Maclean was empty. 

“ I need not have been in such a confounded hurry,” he 
muttered irritably, as he looked at his watch. “ Miss Simp- 
son’s mid-day dinner won’t be over yet.” 

But two hours passed away, and no one came. 

Miss Simpson’s mid-day dinner must certainly be over 
now. Ralph was bitterly disappointed. Miss Maclean had 
always shown herself so much quicker, more perceptive, 
than he had dared to hope. Why did she fail him now, 
just when he had depended on her most? It took half the 
poetry out of their relationship, to think that she had not 
\ understood, that she had not counted on this meeting as he 
| had. 

He made up his mind to go home ; but he overrated his 
own resolution ; and in an incredibly short space of time, 
the bell of Miss Simpson’s shop rang as he opened the door. 

The shop was disappointing too. Everything was dis- 
appointing to-day ! There was no lack of new goods, but 
they were displayed with a want of design and harmony that 
jarred on his over-strained nerves ; and, to crown all, an 
“ air with variations ” was being very indifferently played on 
a cracked piano up-stairs. The music stopped at the sound 
of the bell, and a young woman came down-stairs. 

“ Genus minx , species vulgaris .” A moment was suffi- 
cient to settle that question. Ralph was so taken aback that 
it did not even occur to him to ask for india-rubber. 

“ Is Miss Simpson in?” he said at last. 

“ Oh, lor’ ! no, sir. Miss Simpson sailed for America 
nearly a month ago. My pa bought the business, and he 
means to conduct it on quite a different scale. What is the 
first thing I can show you to-day, sir ? ” 

He tried to ask for Miss Maclean, but he could not bring 
her name over his lips ; so, lifting his hat, he hastily left 
the shop. 

He emptied his first glass of wine at dinner, before he 
ventured to broach the subject to his aunt. 

“ You did not tell me Miss Simpson had emigrated,” he 
said suddenly. 


356 


MONA MACLEAN. 


u Miss Simpson ! What Miss Simpson ? Bless the hoy, 
he’s developing quite a taste for local gossip. I only heard 
it myself three or four days ago. It seems that niece 
whom you thought such a genius, by the way — went to 
America some time ago, and now her aunt has gone to join 
her.” 

“ Nonsense ! I mean ’’—Ralph laughed rather nervous- 
ly “ X can’t conceive of any one sending across the Atlan- 
tic for old Simpson. And, besides— that— young lady— 
wasn’t her niece at all, auntie mine. She was a distant 
cousin.” 

“ I think you are mistaken, dear. The young woman 
told me herself she was Miss Simpson’s niece, and I suppose 
she ought to know.” 

Dimly it occurred to Ralph that he and his aunt must 
be talking of two different people ; but his mind was in 
such a whirl of bewilderment that reflection was impossible, 
and, as soon as dinner was over, he escaped to his own 
room, on the true plea of a racking headache. 

What had happened? Was it all a hideous nightmare, 
from which he would awake with infinite relief; or was 
some evil genius really turning his life upside down ? What 
an infernal idiot he had been not to speak out plainly six 
months ago ! And to think that he had waited only for 
this examination, — this trumpery bit of child’s play ! Per- 
haps she expected him to write, perhaps she had gone to 
America in despair ; at all events, she had vanished out of 
his life like the heroine of a fairy tale, and he had not the 
vaguest notion where to look for her. 

Then saner thoughts began to take form in his mind. 
He was living, after all, in the latter part of the nineteenth 
century. People could not vanish nowadays and leave no 
trace. There must be many in Borrowness who could tell 
him where she was. 

Yes; but who were they ? He knew few people in the 
place, and he could not go round from door to door making 
inquiries. 

At last, with a rush of thankfulness, he bethought him- 
self of Mr. Stuart and Matilda Cookson. Both of them 
were sure to know where Miss Maclean had gone. He 
looked at his watch — yes, it was past his aunt’s bedtime, 
and not too late to drop in on Stuart. He told the servant 


SUCCESS OR FAILURE? 


357 


not to sit up if he should be late, and then he walked along 
the highroad to Kirkstoun, at a pace few men could have 
equalled. 

Once more disappointment awaited him. Mr. Stuart 
was away for a month’s holiday, and the manse was occu- 
pied by his “ supply.” Dudley was certainly not intimate 
enough with the Cooksons to pay them a visit at this hour ; 
so he was forced, sorely against his will, to postpone his 
inquiries until the next day. 

“ I suppose the Cooksons will be away for August too,” 
he said to himself many times during that restless night ; 
but Fortune favoured him at last. When he opened the 
garden gate next day, he found Matilda and her father on 
the lawn. 

“ Come away, doctor ! ” cried Mr. Cookson heartily. “ I 
have got some cigars here that you won’t get a chance to 
smoke every day of your life. Come and tell us your news ! ” 

Fully half an hour passed before Dudley contrived to 
bring the conversation round to Rachel Simpson’s de- 
parture. 

“ And has Miss Maclean gone to America too ? ” he 
said indifferently, with his eyes fixed on the curling wreaths 
of tobacco-smoke. 

“ Oh, bless my soul, no ! ” cried Mr. Cookson, slapping 
his visitor on the knee. “Did you never hear that story ? 
It was excellent, — excellent! Where do you think I saw 
Miss Maclean last ? Driving in Hyde Park in as elegant a 
carriage as ever I wish to see. There was another lady with 
her — leaning back, you know, with their lace and their 
parasols,” — Mr. Cookson attempted somewhat unsuccessfully 
to demonstrate the attitude of the ladies in question, — “ and 
a young man riding alongside. A tiptop turn-out altogether, 
I warrant you.” 

Dudley’s face darkened, but he waited for his host to 
go on. 

“ I had got wind of it before she left us,” Mr. Cookson 
continued complacently, “from something Colonel Law- 
rence let drop, and we had her here to dinner ; a fine girl, a 
fine girl ! I remember when I was a boy hearing what a 
successful man her grandfather was; but her people had 
been out of the place so long, one never thought of one of 
them coming back. Matilda knew about it all along, it 


358 


MONA MACLEAN. 


seems ; and she and Miss Maclean were fast friends, but she 
kept it very close.” 

“ I found it out by accident,” Matilda said, with dignity ; 
“ but no one with any perception could see Miss Maclean 
and question that she was a lady.” 

u I quite agree with you,” Dudley said gravely ; “ but did 
Miss Maclean confide to you what induced her to come 
masquerading down here ? ’ 

He regretted the words the moment they were spoken, 
but it was too late to recall them. 

Matilda’s face flushed. 

“ If you knew Miss Maclean at all,” she said, “ you 
would be ashamed to say that. She was not always wonder- 
ing what people would think of somebody’s cousin, or some- 
body else’s niece ; she was her very own self. The fact that 
she had grand relations did not make Miss Simpson any 
the less her cousin. It was as easy to Miss Maclean to 
claim kindred with a vulgar woman in a shop as with a fine 
lady in a ball-room.” 

This was hyperbolical, no doubt ; but as Dudley listened 
to it, he wondered whether Mona could safely be judged by 
the influence she had had on Matilda Cookson. 

One question more he had to ask. “ Is she a medical 
student ? ” 

“ Bless my soul, no ! ” laughed Mr. Cookson. “ She has 
no need to do anything for herself. In a small way she is 
an heiress.” 

This was rash ; but after acting the part of the one 
who knows, Mr. Cookson was unwilling to own his igno- 
rance ; and, his idea of medical women being vague and 
alarming in the extreme, it never crossed his mind that an 
attractive, well-to-do young lady like Miss Maclean could 
possibly belong to their ranks. 

Balph turned to Matilda. 

“ Do you know where Miss Maclean is now ? ” he said. 
“ In London ? ” 

“ I had a letter from her yesterday,” Matilda answered 
proudly, drawing an oft-perused document from her pocket. 
“ She is just starting with a party of friends to travel in 
Switzerland.” 

“ What a magnificent araucaria that is ! ” Dudley said, 
suddenly. 


ANOTHER CHAT BY THE FIRE. 


359 


“ It would need be,” replied Mr. Cookson. “ It cost me 
a pretty penny, I can tell you.” 

Then Dudley rose to go. His manner was playful, but 
his heart was welling over with bitterness. He did not real- 
ise the position in which he had placed the woman he loved ; 
it did not occur to him to think how much worse it would 
have been if she had run after him, instead of appearing to 
run away. He could not believe that she was false, and yet 
; — how she had deceived him ! What madness it was ever to 
trust to the honesty of a woman’s eyes ! 

“Well, old boy!” he said to himself, cynically, as he 
walked back to Carlton Lodge, “ are we going to write our 
‘ Sorrows of Werther ’ once again f ” 


CHAPTER LI. 

ANOTHER CHAT BY THE FIRE. 

The last sodden leaves had fallen from the London 
trees, and autumn was fast merging into winter. Mona sat 
alone in her study, deep in a copy of Balfour On the Heart , 
which she had picked up second-hand, on her way from 
hospital, and had carried home in triumph. It was the 
height of her ambition at this time to be “ strong on the 
heart and lungs ” ; and as she read she mechanically per- 
cussed the arm of her big chair, with a lightness of touch 
which many doctors might have envied. 

There was a knock at the door, and Miss Lascelles en- 
tered the room. 

“ That’s right,” said Mona, holding out her hand, “ sit 
down.” 

“ Thanks,” was the reply, in Miss Lascelles’s cultured, 
musical drawl. “ I am not going to stay. I came to ask if 
you would lend me your notes of that leucocythsemia case. 
I am working up the spleen just now.” 

“ I will with pleasure. But don’t be in such a hurry, 
now that you have come so far. I never get a chance to 
speak to you in hospital. Sit down and tell me what the 
scientist thinks of it all.” 


360 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Miss Lascelles pulled off her hat unceremoniously, and 
passed her hand through her dark hair. 

“ Oh, reform it altogether ! ” she cried. “ There is a deal 
of humbug in the profession, and I don’t know that the 
women have lessened it.” 

Mona laughed. 

“ What a born reformer you are ! ” she said, admiringly. 

“ I suppose I am. In other words, I shall never be a 
successful doctor. Kismet l I don’t see how any honest 
man can live in this world and not be a reformer.” 

“ Don’t you? Oh, I do.” 

Miss Lascelles glanced round the pretty room. 

“ I almost envy you,” she said. “ It must be very pleas- 
ant to be able to shut one’s eyes to abuses, and eat one’s 
pudding in comfort.” 

“ Ay, or to shut one’s eyes to one’s father’s shortcomings, 
and make the best of them.” 

“ It is not the shortcomings I object to, it is the false 
pretensions. Give me honesty at all costs. Let everything 
be open and above board.” 

“ Honesty — honesty — honesty ! ” said Mona. “ I some- 
times think I hate honesty ; it is so often another name for 
ingratitude and brutality. I care more for loyalty than for 
all the other virtues put together. It is the loyal souls who 
prepare the way for the reformer. His actual work is often 
nothing more than the magnificent thrust with which a child 
knocks down a castle of cards.” 

“ I believe in loyalty, too ; but let us be loyal to the right, 
not loyal to the wrong.” 

“ With all my heart, if you can contrive to separate the 
right from the wrong. I never could. I am always brought 
back to that grand bold line — 

‘ Mit ihm zu irren ist dir Gewinn.’ 

You don’t believe that? ” 

Miss Lascelles laughed, and shook her head. “ I don’t 
mean to go astray with anybody, if I can help it. I had no 
idea, Miss Maclean, that you were so desperately — medice- 
vair 

Mona smiled. 

“ I think it is rather Greek than mediaeval to shut one’s 
eyes to abuses, and eat one’s pudding in comfort. The 


ANOTHER CHAT BY THE FIRE. 


361 


mediaeval spirit renounces the pudding* and looks beyond 
the abuses.” 

Miss Lascelles sprang to her feet, and carelessly threw 
on her broad picturesque hat. 

“ I am neither Greek nor mediaeval, then,” she said, in- 
voluntarily drawing up the sleeves from her plump pretty 
wrists as she spoke ; “ for I choose to share my pudding, and 
: wage war to the death against the abuses.” 

“Brava!” said Mona. “You are one of the sort that 
live in history.” 

“ For knocking down a castle of cards ! ” 

“ Nay, nay; I did not say that of all reformers.” 

“Well, Miss Maclean, whatever your theories may be, 
you have worked a grand reformation in Miss Reynolds.” 

“Now that is precisely a case of the wrong man getting 
the credit. That, at least, was the work of her own loyal 
self.” J 

“ If only she would be quite natural, and not treat the 
doctors with that half-coquettish air.” 

“ But that is natural to her, and I can’t say I altogether 
object to it. Perhaps I am partial. Here are the notes in 
the meantime.” 

“ Many thanks. Good-bye.” 

“Au revoir ! Come back again — when you want an- 
other chapter out of the Middle Ages” 

Mona returned to her books, but she had not read a page 
before another visitor was announced. 

“ I really shall have to sport my oak,” she said ; but 
when she took the card from the salver, her whole face 
beamed. 

“ Show him in,” she said, wheeling an arm-chair up to 
the fire. “ Mr. Reynolds, there are not three people in the 
"world whom I should be so glad to see. What lucky wind 
blows you here now ? ” 

“ I have come partly to look after my two daughters,” 
said the old man, smiling. “ Let me have a good look at 
this one. Lucy tells me you are working yourself to death. ” 

“ One of Lucy’s effective statements.” But Mona flushed 
rather nervously under his steady gaze. “ I suppose you 
have just come from her now.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ She is working splendidly if you will.” 


362 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ So I gather.” He smiled. “ She is very indignant to- 
night about the rudeness of the doctor under whom she is 
working at hospital.” 

“ I don’t think it is very serious. They are excellent 
friends in the main, and you cannot expect all men to be 
gentlemen. The fact is ” — Mona drew down her brows in 
earnest consideration — “ we women are excellent, really ex- 
cellent, at taking a good hard blow when we are convinced 
that we deserve it. That is where our mettle comes in. 
But if we really mean to share men’s work, we have got to 
learn within the next generation to take a little miscellane- 
ous knocking about from our superiors, without enquiring 
too closely whether we have deserved it or not. That is 
where our ignorance of the world comes in.” 

“ I should think that was extremely true,” Mr. Reynolds 
said reflectively, “ especially in a busy life like a doctor’s, 
where there is so little time for explanations. There must 
be a good deal of give and take. But, my dear girl, don’t 
let your common-sense run away with one atom of your 
womanliness. One would not think it necessary to say so, 
if one had not been disappointed in that respect, once and 
again.” 

“ I know,” Mona answered hurriedly. “ It is a case of 
Scylla and Charybdis. Me don’t want to be mawkish and 
sentimental, and in the first swing of reaction we are apt to 
go to the other extreme and treat the patients in hospital 
as mere material. But you know, Mr. Reynolds, if one real- 
ises that the occupant of each bed is a human soul, with its 
own rights and its own reserves— if one takes the trouble to 
knock at the door, in fact, and ask admission instead of 
leaping over the wall — life becomes pretty intense ; a good 
deal gets crowded into a very few hours.” 

“ I know. That is quite true. But all things become 
easier by practice. It may be the view of a half-informed 
outsider, but I cannot help thinking that, if you take the 
trouble, when you first begin ward-work, as Lucy calls it, to 
gain admission with the will of the patient, you will in 
time become the possessor of a magic passe-partout , which 
will make entrance not only infinitely more satisfactory and 
complete, but also even easier than by leaping over the 
wall.” 

“ You should preach a sermon to women doctors,” Mona 


ANOTHER CHAT BY THE FIRE. 


363 


said, smiling ; “ and have it printed. I would lay it to heart 
for one.” 

“ You will do far more good by preaching it yourself in 
your daily life, as indeed I believe you are doing now. But 
in any case, I did not come here to preach to you.” 

“ You don’t know how much I stand in need of it.” 

“ I want you to talk to me. Do you know it is more 
than a year since I saw you ? ” 

Mona sighed. “ It seems five to me sometimes.” 

“ I suppose it has been very full of events ? ” 

Mr. Reynolds had not forgotten the man whose presence 
at Borrowness made “ all the difference ” in Mona’s life 
there. 

“Yes. There was first my life with my cousin; and 
then the examination; and then Switzerland with the 
Munros ; and then hospital. Four different Mona Mac- 
leans, — each living as hard as ever she could.” 

“ And enjoying life ? ” 

“I don’t know. I have been so restless, so unset- 
tled.” 

“ I fancied I could read that in your face, but it is pass- 
ing over now.” 

“ I hope so. I don’t know. Don’t let us talk of it.” 

“ You enjoy your hospital work ? ” 

Mona was sitting opposite him on the corner of the tiled 
fender. She looked into the fire now, with an amount of 
expression in her face that was almost painful. 

“ Hospital,” she said, “ is salvation ! All one’s work 
apart from that tends to make one self-centred. It is a 
duty to think much of my knowledge, my marks, my success, 
my failure. Hospital work gives one a chance to ‘ die to 
live.’ ” 

She laughed softly. 

“ It must seem incredible to you, but I actually thought 
once that I had died to live — I, with my books and my 
pictures, and my pretty gowns, and my countless toys ! I 
thought I held them with so light a hand, that I valued 
them only for the eternal that was in them.” 

She paused and went on without much logical sequence. 
“ It is so easy to die to live, when the life one dies to is some- 
thing vague and shadowy and unknown ; but let one brill- 
iant ray of promised happiness cross one’s path, and then it 


364 


MONA MACLEAN. 


becomes a very different thing to die to that — to nothing 
abstract, nothing vague, but just to that ! One realizes what 
one’s professions are worth. 

“ All the time I was at Borrowness I hardly once said a 
cross word to my cousin, and I suppose I took great credit 
to myself for that ; but I see now that there was no true self- 
lessness in it at all. It was simply because she was so un- 
like me that she never came into my real life. I conquered 
my hardships in a sense, by escaping them. I thought I 
had attained, and I have only learned now that I have at- 
tained nothing. The whole lesson of sel-frenunciation has 
still got to be learnt.” 

“ You are thinking much of the duty of self-renuncia- 
tion ; what of the duty of self-realisation ? ” 

“ Is there such a duty ? ” 

“ You have acted instinctively up till now on the theory 
that there is. Have you any reason to distrust your in- 
stincts ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I seem to have got into a muddle about 
everything. How can they both be duties when they are so 
absolutely incompatible ? ” 

“ One can only unite them certainly by seeking for a 
higher truth that combines them both. It may seem a 
strange thing for a Christian minister to say, but it has al- 
ways seemed to me that those words, ‘ die to live,’ were an 
admirable expression of a philosophy, but a very poor max- 
im for daily life ; partly because they ignore that duty of 
self-realisation, in which I for one believe, and partly be- 
cause, so long as a man says, ‘ Am I dying to live ? ’ he can- 
not possibly do it. The maxim accentuates the very ele- 
ment we want to get rid of. If we are indeed to die to live, 
we must cease to think about it ; we must cease to know 
whether we live or die.” 

“ But the higher truth, Mr. Reynolds, what is that ? ” 

“ Hay, I should be doing you a poor service by telling 
you.” 

“ There is only one higher truth conceivable,” Mona said 
boldly, “ and that is — God in all.” 

“ And is not that enough ? God in me. God to have 
His way in me, and to find the fullest possible expression 
there. God in all men — in the church, the ball-room, the 
slum. If we see all things through the medium of God, 


ANOTHER CHAT BY THE FIRE. 3G5 

what becomes of the strife between self-renunciation and 
self-realisation ? ” 

Mona pressed his hand in silence. “ You knew all that 
before, dear child,” he said ; “ you had only got confused for 
the moment.” 

Mona shook her head. “ I knew it vaguely,” she said, 
“ but you must not think I am living up to that level. I 
thought, in my infinite conceit, that I had risen above hap- 
piness and attained to blessedness ; and now — and now — I 
want the happiness too.” 

He laid his hand on her shoulder. “ And so you are 
wearing yourself out at hospital,” he said quietly, as though 
that were the natural outcome of what she had said ; “ but 
don’t forget the friends who love you, and who are depend- 
ing on you.” 

Mona looked up gratefully into his face. The advice 
was almost the same as that which she herself had given to 
Lucy some months before ; but the value of advice is rarely 
intrinsic — we think far less of its substance than we do of 
the personality of the giver. The words that are empty 
platitudes on the lips of one man, become living inspiration 
on those of another. 

To-night, however, even Mr. Reynolds had not the power 
to raise Mona above the longing for happiness. As the 
months went on, the strain of uncertainty was becoming al- 
most unendurable. Never since that night when he drove 
her home in his gig from Colonel Lawrence’s Wood, had she 
heard anything from Dr. Dudley ; never, since the chance 
glimpses at Burlington House, had she even seen him. It 
seemed incredible that he could have failed to find her, if 
he had really tried ; and yet — and yet — 

“ Oh, my friend, my friend ! ” she said wearily, “ I have 
waited so long. Where are you ? ” 


366 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER LII. 

OLD FRIENDS. 

“ You are late,” said Lady Munro. “ Had you forgotten 
that you were going to take us to the theatre ? ” 

She was sitting alone in the firelight, one dainty slippered 
foot on the burnished fender. 

Sir Douglas looked sharply round the room without 
replying. “ Is Mona here ? ” he said. 

“ No, she could not spare enough time to come to dinner. 
We are to call for her.” 

Sir Douglas frowned. 

“ That’s always the way. Upon my soul, for all we see 
of her, she might as well be at — Borrowness ! ” 

“ Where in the world is that ? ” asked Lady Munro lan- 
guidly. Then, with a sudden change of tone, “ I have got 
such a piece of news for you,” she said. “ Another of our 
friends is engaged to be married.” 

“Not Dickinson ! ” he said, glancing at the foreign letter 
in her hand. 

“ Yes ; the Indian mail came in to-day. Guess who the 
lady is?” 

“ You know I hate guessing. Go on ! ” 

“ Miss Colqulioun ! ” 

“ What an extraordinary thing ! ” 

“ Isn’t it ? It seems he wanted the thing settled before 
he sailed, but it took the exchange of a few letters to decide 
the question. I must say it is a great disappointment to me. 
I am quite sure the Sahib cared for Mona, and I did think 
she would take pity on him in the long-run.” 

“ How ridiculous ! ” said Sir Douglas testily. 

He wanted Mona to marry, because that was the natural 
and fitting destiny for a young and attractive woman ; but 
it was quite another thing to think of her as the wife of any 
given man. 

“ Of course we all know that Mona ought to marry a 
duke,” said Evelyn quietly. She had entered the room a 
moment before, looking very fair and sweet in her white 
evening dress. “ But even if the duke could be brought to 
see it, which is not absolutely certain — I suppose even dukes 


OLD FRIENDS. 307 

are sometimes blind to their best interests — oh, Father, 
don't!” 

For Sir Douglas was pinching her ear unmercifully. 

“ You little sauce-box ! ” he said indignantly, but he did 
not look displeased. Evelyn had learned that approaching 
womanhood gave her the right to take liberties with her 
father which his wife would scarcely have ventured upon. 

“Well, whatever may be the cause of it, 7 ’ said Lady 
Munro, “ Mona is not half so bright as she was a year ago.” 

Evelyn laughed. 

“Do you remember what Sydney Smith said ? ‘ Macaulay 
has improved of late, — flashes of silence ! ’ Lucy told her 
yesterday that, to our great surprise, we find we may open 
our lips now-a-days, without having our heads snapped off 
with an epigram.” 

“ It’s all nonsense,” said Sir Douglas loftily. “ Mona is 
not changed a bit. You did not understand her, that is all.” 

But in truth no one had wondered over the change in 
Mona so much as he. He was perfectly certain that she did 
not care for the Sahib, and he had come at last to the con- 
clusion that, with a girl like Mona, incessant hospital work 
was quite sufficient to account for the alteration. To his 
partial mind Mona’s increased womanliness more than made 
up for her loss of sparkle. When friendship and affection 
are removed alike from all danger of starvation and of 
satiety, they are very hard to kill. 

At this moment Nubboo announced dinner, and an hour 
or so later the carriage stopped at the door of Mona’s rooms 
in Gower Street. 

Much as Sir Douglas spoiled his niece, she “ knew her 
place,” as Lucy expressed it, better than to keep him wait- 
ing ; and the reverberations of the knocker had not died 
away when she appeared. 

Sir Douglas ran his eye with satisfaction over the details 
of her toilet. It was an excellent thing for her, in this time 
of hard work and heart-hunger, that she felt the bounden 
necessity of living up to the level of Sir Douglas’s expecta- 
tions. She cared intensely for his approbation ; partly for 
her own sake, partly because to him she represented the 
whole race of “ learned women ” ; and she could not well 
have had a more friendly, frank, and fastidious critic. 

The theatre was crowded when they entered their box. 


368 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Like many habitual theatre-goers Sir Douglas hated boxes, 
but he had applied for seats too late to get anything else. It 
was the first night of a new melodrama, — new in actual 
date, but in all essentials old as the history of man. A noble 
magnificent hero ; a sweet loyal wife ; a long period of per- 
secution, separation, and mutual devotion; a happy and 
triumphant reunion. 

Judged by every canon of modern realistic art, it was 
stagey and conventional to the point of being ridiculous ; 
but the acting was brilliant, and even Sir Douglas and Mona 
found it difficult to escape the enthusiasm of that crowded 
house. Evelyn and her mother were moved almost to tears 
before the end. The one saw in the play the ideal that lay 
in the shadows before her, the other the ideal that her own 
life had missed. 

“ Have you heard the news about the Sahib ? ” Lady 
Munro enquired in the pause that followed the first act. 

“ Yes,” said Mona, flushing slightly ; “ I had a few lines 
from him by to-day’s mail.” 

“ Do you think the match a desirable one? ” 

“ Ideal, so far as one can foresee. They won’t water 
down each other’s enthusiasms, as most married people do.” 

“ Douglas remembers Miss Colquhoun as a quaint, old- 
fashioned child — not at all pretty. I suppose she has im- 
proved?” 

“ I suppose she has,” Mona answered reflectively ; “ she 
is certainly immensely admired now.” 

“ It was such an odd coincidence ; we heard this morn- 
ing of the engagement of another of our friends— Colonel 
Monteith’s son ; I forget whether you have met him ? ” 

“No; I have met the Colonel. Who is the son en- 
gaged to ? ” 

“Nobody very great. A Miss Nash, a girl with plenty 
of money. George inherits a nice little estate from his 
uncle, and he had to marry something to keep it up on. 
By the way, Lucy Beynolds must have mentioned him to 
you. She saw a good deal of him at Cannes.” And Lady 
Munro looked rather anxiously at her niece. 

“ I rather think she did,” Mona answered, pretending 
to stifle a yawn. “ But Lucy met so many people while she 
was with you — ” 

The rise of the curtain for the second act obviated the 


OLD FRIENDS. 


369 


necessity of finishing the sentence, and Lady Munro did 
not resume the subject. 

As soon as Sir Douglas had left the box for the second 
time, it was entered by a stout man, with a vast expanse of 
shirt front, and a bunch of showy seals. 

“ I thought I could not be mistaken,” he said with a 
marked Scotch accent, and holding out his hand to Mona. 
“ I have been watching you from the dress circle ever since 
the beginning of the play, Miss Maclean ; and I thought I 
must just come and pay my respects.” 

Lady Munro looked utterly aghast, and the ease of 
Mona’s manner rather belied her feelings, as she took his 
out-stretched hand. 

“ That was very kind of you,” she said simply. “ Mr. 
Cookson, my aunt, Lady Munro, — Miss Munro.” 

Mr. Cookson gasped, and there was an awkward pause. 
Rachel Simpson had not taken with her, across the Atlan- 
tic, all the complications in her cousin’s life. 

Fortunately, at this moment two young men came in, 
and Mona was able to keep Mr. Cookson pretty much to her- 
self. 

“ I hope you are all well at Borrowness,” she said cor- 
dially. 

“ Thanks, we are wonderful, considering. It’ll be great 
news for Matilda that I came across you.” 

“ Please give her my love.” 

There was another pause. Mona was longing to ask 
about Mrs. Hamilton and Dr. Dudley, but she did not dare. 

“ It was a great thing for Matilda getting to know you,” 
Mr. Cookson went on. “We often wish you were back 
among us. If ever you care to renew the homely old asso- 
ciations a bit, our spare room is always at your disposal, you 
know.” 

Care to renew the old associations ! What else in life 
did she care so much about ? In her eagerness she forgot 
even the presence of her aunt. 

“ I should like very much to see the old place again,” 
she said. “You are very kind.” 

Mr. Cookson’s good-natured face beamed with delight- 
ed surprise. 

« It isn’t looking its best now,” he said ; “ but any time 
you care to come, we shall be only too delighted.” 

24 


370 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Thank you. If it would not he too much trouble to 
Mrs. Oookson, I could come for a day or two at the begin- 
ning of January. I shall never forget the fairy frost we 
had at that time last winter.” 

Mr. Cookson laughed. 

“We will be proud to see you at any time,” he said; 
“but I am afraid we have not enough interest with the 
clerk of the weather to get up a frost like that again. I 
never remember to have seen the like of it.” 

He turned to Lady Munro with a vague idea that he 
ought to be making himself agreeable to her. 

“ My girls were wishing they could carry the leaves and 
things home,” he said ; “ it seemed such a waste like.” 

Mona inwardly blessed her aunt for the gracious smile 
with which she listened to these words ; but, whatever Lady 
Munro ’s feelings might be, it was extremely difficult for her 
to be ungracious to any one. 

The Fates, after all, were kind. Mr. Cookson left the 
box before Sir Douglas returned. 

“ My dear Mona ! ” was all Lady Munro could say the 
first moment they were left alone. 

“ Poor dear Aunt Maud ! ” Mona said caressingly ; “ it 
is a shame that she should be subjected to such a thing. 
But never mind, dear ; he lives hundreds of miles away from 
here, and you are never likely to see him again.” 

Lady Munro groaned. Fortunately, she had heard noth- 
ing of the invitation, and in another minute she was once 
more absorbed in the interest of the play. 

The party drove back to Gower Street in silence. Sir 
Douglas alighted at once, and held out his hand to help 
Mona. 

“ Many thanks,” she said warmly ; “ good night.” 

“No! I am coming-in for ten minutes. I want to 
speak to you. Home, Charles ! ” 

Mona opened the door, and led the way up the dimly 
lighted staircase to her cheerful sitting-room. 

“ Now, Mona,” he said, as soon as the door was closed, 
“ I want the whole truth of this Borrowness business.” 

Mona started visibly. Had he met Mr. Cookson in the 
corridor, seized him by the throat, and demanded an account 
of his actions? No, that was clearly impossible. 

“ Who has been talking to you? ” she said resignedly. 


OLD FRIENDS. 


371 


“ I met Colonel Lawrence at the club to-day.” 

Mona threw herself into the rocking-chair with a sigh of 
capitulation. 

44 If you have heard his story,” she said, 44 you need not 
come to me for farther details. He knows more than I do 
myself. They say down at Borrowness that he is 4 as guid 
as an auld almanac.’ ” 

But Sir Douglas declined to be amused. 

44 How long were you there?” he said severely. 

44 Six months.” 

44 And you have kept me in the dark about it all this 
time ? I think I deserved greater confidence from you.” 

44 1 think you did,” she said frankly ; 44 but you see, 
TJnole Douglas, I promised to go at a time when I only 
knew you by name, and I had not the least idea then that 
you would be so kind to me. I felt bound to keep my word, 
and I did not feel quite sure that you would approve of it.” 

“Approve of it ! ” he exclaimed indignantly. 

44 But I always meant to tell you about it sooner or 
i later.” 

j Mona sighed. She had expected the whole story to come 
| out in connection with her engagement to Dr. Dudley. And 
; now that engagement seemed to be becoming more and more 
j problematical. 

44 Particularly later,” said Sir Douglas sarcastically. 44 It 
i is nearly a year now since you left.” 

44 Yes, but that isn’t exactly due to intentional secrecy on 
: my part. The fact is, my visit has some painful associations 
| for me now.” 

44 So I should think,” he said. 44 Is it really true, Mona, 
that you stood behind a counter ? — that you kept a shop ? ” 

‘‘"Perfectly true,” said Mona, meeting his gaze without 
flinching. “I confess I had no special training for the 
work, but I did not do it so badly, after all.” 

The least suspicion of a smile played about the corners 
of his mouth, but he suppressed it instantly. 

44 And when,” he asked, 44 may we expect your next at- 
tack of shopkeeping? ” 

44 Oh, did Colonel Lawrence not tell you? My cousin 
sailed for America months ago.” 

He looked relieved. 

44 To your infinite regret, no doubt.” 


372 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I am afraid it is a great weight off my mind.” 

“ And is that the end of the affair, or have you any more 
cousins down there ? ” 

“ I have one or two friends ; no relatives.” 

“ Then there is nothing to take you back again ? ” 

Poor Mona ! 

“ I met a Borrowness acquaintance in the theatre to- 
night,” she said, “ and promised to go down for a day or two 
at Christmas. Uncle Douglas, you did not ask to see my 
genealogical tree before you took me to Norway. I am 
proud of the fact that my grandfather rose from the ranks ; 
and, even if I were not, I could not consent to draw all my 
acquaintances from one set. There are four links in the 
chain — your world, you, me, my world. Your world won’t 
let you go, and I can’t let my world go. If you must break 
the chain, you can only do it in one place.” 

“ I don’t believe you would care a straw if I did.” 

“ I should care intensely,” said Mona, her eyes filling 
with tears. “ It seems like a fairy tale that a brilliant man 
of the world like you should be so good to commonplace me ; 
and, besides — you know I love you almost as if you were my 
father. But, indeed, now that I know you and Aunt Maud, 
you may trust me in future always to think of what is due 
to you.” 

She had risen from her chair as she spoke, and he strode 
across the hearthrug and kissed her affectionately. 

“ There, there,” he said, “ she shall dictate her own 
terms ! Thank heaven at least that that old frump is well 
across the Atlantic ! ” 

He went away, and Mona was left alone, to think over 
the events of the day. Doris and the Sahib, Monteith and 
Lucy — it was the old tale over again — “ The one shall be 
taken, and the other left.” How strange it seemed that life 
should run smoothly for Doris, with all her grand power of 
self -surrender ; and that poor little Lucy, with her innocent, 
childlike expectation of happiness, should be called upon to 
suffer ! 

“ — so horribly,” Mona added ; but in her heart she was 
beginning to hope that Lucy had not been so hard hit 
after all. 

And for herself, how did the equation run? As the 
Sahib is to Doris, so is somebody to me ? or, as Monteith is 


WAITING. 


373 


to Lucy, so is somebody to me? No, no, no ! That was 
impossible. Monteith had never treated Lucy as Dr. Dud- 
ley had treated her. 

During all these months what had caused Mona the 
acutest suffering was an anguish of shame. It never re- 
mained with her long, but it recurred whenever she was 
worn out and depressed. She had long since realised that, 
from an outsider’s point of view, her experience that winter 
night was in no way so exceptional as she had supposed — 
that there were thousands of men who would give such ex- 
pression to a moment’s transient passion. But surely, sure- 
ly, Dr. Dudley was not one of these, and surely any man 
must see that with a woman like her it must be everything 
or nothing ! If he had indeed torn her soul out and given 
her nothing in return, why then — then — But she never 
could finish the sentence, for the recollection of a hundred 
words and actions and looks came back, and turned the gall 
into sweetness. And she always ended with the same old 
cry — “ If only I had told him about my life, if only I had 
given him no shadow of a reason to think that I had de- 
ceived him ! ” 

But to-night it seemed as if the long uncertainty must 
be coming to an end at last. If she went to Borrowness at 
Christmas, as she had promised, she could not fail to hear 
something of her friend, and she might even see him. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

WAITING. 

The weeks passed very slowly till the Christmas holi- 
days came round ; but, on the whole, life had become more 
bearable for Mona. The future was as uncertain as ever, 
but she had at least one definite event to look forward to. 
There was a light of some kind before her, though it might 
be only a Will-o’-the-wisp. 

And a Will-o’-the-wisp it was destined to prove. 

She arrived at Borrowness late in the evening, and, im- 


374 


MONA MACLEAN. 


mediately after breakfast next morning, Matilda begged her 
to come to Castle Maclean. Mona assented the more 
readily, as the walk led them past the gates of Carlton 
Lodge ; but at the first glance she saw that the house was j 
shut up. 

It was some minutes before she could measure the full 
force of the blow. 

“ What has become of Mrs. Hamilton ? ” she said at last, 
with averted face. 

“ Oh, didn’t you know ? She was awfully ill last autumn. 
Dr. Dudley had some great gun down from London to see 
her, — as if Edinburgh doctors were not a great deal better ! j 
— and she was ordered abroad for the winter. Dr. Dudley 
took her away at once, to Cairo, or Algiers, or some such 
place. We don’t hear anything about them now. By the 
way, Miss Maclean, the very last time that I saw Dr. Dudley 
he was asking about you.” 

Mona could not trust herself to speak. 

“ He wanted to know if you had gone to America with 
Miss Simpson, and Pa gave him a glowing account of how j 
he had seen you in London.” 

“ At the theatre ? ” 

“ NTo, no. Pa saw you once, long before that, one day 
in Hyde Park, with a lady — and a young gentleman. I 
thought it would be Lady Munro, but I never said so to 
Pa.” 

It was contrary to all Mona’s instincts to ask what any 
one had said of her, but the opportunity was too precious to 
be lost. Her dignity must go. 

“ And what did Dr. Dudley say to that ? ” she asked, as 
carelessly as she could. 

Matilda hesitated ; but she felt a pardonable longing to 
repeat her own brave words. 

“ I don’t know whether I ought to tell you,” she said. 
“You see — Dr. Dudley doesn’t know you as well as. I do. 
He said in that horrid sneering way of his, ‘ And do you 
know what induced her to come masquerading down here ? ’ 

I gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you.” And 
Matilda repeated the retort which she had so often gone 
over with keen satisfaction in her own mind. 

“You loyal little soul!” said Mona; but her face had 
turned very white. 


WAITING. 


375 


“Dr. Dudley asked such an extraordinary thing,” 
Matilda went on. “ He wanted to know whether you were 
— a medical student ! ” 

Ah ! so he had noticed her name in the lists. Then why 
had he not written to her at the school ? 

“ Fancy his imagining such a thing ! Pa told him you 
had no need to do anything for yourself.” 

Mona was too preoccupied to think of it at the time ; 
but, before she left Borrowness, she broke to the Cooksons 
the astounding fact that, although she had no need to do 
anything for herself, she was a medical student. 

When she came to think calmly over the incident which 
Matilda had narrated to her, she did not know whether to 
draw from it comfort or despair. She was not sorry that 
Dudley should have been angry, — angry enough to forget 
himself before little Matilda Oookson ; but had he been 
content to condemn her unheard ? Surely he could in some 
way have got a letter to her. Algiers and Cairo were far 
off, but they were not on the astral plane. 

Ho, certainly Mona did not despair of her friend. It 
might have been better for her physically if she had. If 
she had been sure that he had forgotten her, she would 
have turned the key with a will on the suite of enchanted 
rooms ; but the suspense, the excitement of uncertainty, was 
wearing out her strength. 

When spring came round she was thoroughly ill. She 
went about her work as usual, but even her lecturers and 
fellow-students saw that something was wrong; and Sir 
Douglas implored her to give up medicine altogether. 

“ I ought to have trusted my own instincts,” he said. 
“ The very first day I saw your face, I felt sure that you 
were not the sort to make a doctor. That kind of work 
wants women of coarser fibre. There is no use trying to 
chop wood with a razor.” 

In vain Mona protested that medical work had nothing 
to do with it ; that she could not live without her hospital. 
She was not prepared to suggest any other explanation, and 
Sir Douglas stuck to his point. 

“ Don’t fret, dear,” she said at last. “ If you like I will 
go and see Dr. Alice Bateson to-morrow.” 

“ Do ! ” he said emphatically. “ I have a great mind to 
go and see her myself.” 


376 


MONA MACLEAN. 


So next evening Mona found herself in a pleasant, airy 
consulting-room. Dr. Bateson rose as her patient entered, 
and looked at her steadily, with the penetrating brown 
eyes. 

“ I am not ill,” Mona said apologetically. “ But I can’t 
sleep much, and things get on my nerves ; so I thought I 
would allow myself the luxury of consulting you.” 

“You do look seedy,” was the frank reply, and the 
brown eyes kept firm hold of the white, sensitive face. 
“ Overworking ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ When is your next examination ? ” 

“ Not for eighteen months.” 

“ So it isn’t that ? ” 

“ No, it isn’t that.” 

Dr. Bateson put her fingers on the girl’s pulse. Her 
manner could not be called strictly sympathetic — certainly 
not effusive — but there was something very irresistible in 
her profound and unassumed interest in her patients. 

“Is something particular worrying you?” she said 
shortly. 

Mona smiled drearily. 

. “ Th °re you have me,” she said. “ Something is worry- 

ing me. It lies entirely out of my power, so I cannot con- 
trol it ; and it is still uncertain, so I cannot make up mv 
mind to it.” r J 

“ And you can’t shake it off, and wait ? ” 

“I am afraid it is because I have failed in that, that I 
have come to you. I suppose I am demanding the impos- 
sible-asking you to ‘ minister to a mind diseased.’ ” 

. . “ I don’t mind ministering to a mind diseased at all — if 
it is not too diseased to carry out my instructions. In this 
age of worry and strain one laughs at the stories of the old 
doctors, who declined to undertake a case if the patient had 
anything on his mind. They would not have a very flourish- 
ing practice now-a-days. Thousands of worries and not a 
few suicides might be prevented by the timely use of a simple 
tonic. Prosaic, isn’t it ? ” r 

“ Prove it true in my case, and I shall be grateful to 

y0U u a Jr^ ri ? r^Y 1 don t play tlie P art of invali d con amove, 
lhat I believe. What are you going to do with your 
Easter holiday ? ” J 


WAITING. 377 

“ I am not going to leave town, — at least not for more 
than a few days.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

Mona’s appearance did not suggest the lack of means, to 
which Dr. Alice Bateson was pretty well accustomed in her 
practice. 

“ I want to get on with my hospital work ; and besides, 
it is work that keeps one sane.” 

“ That is quite true up to a certain point. I suppose 
you have friends that you can go to ? ” 

“ Yes. My aunt wants me to go to Bournemouth with 
her,” Mona admitted unwillingly. 

“ And is she a congenial companion ? ” 

“ Thoroughly ; but I should mope myself to death.” 

“ Not if you follow my advice. Live on the cliffs the 
whole day long, read what will rest you, and take a tonic 
that will make you eat in spite of yourself.” 

She asked a few more questions, and then consulted 
Mona very frankly about the ingredients of her prescrip- 
tion. Dr. Bateson did not at all believe in making a mys- 
tery of her art, nor in drawing a hard and fast line between 
students and doctors. 

“ Thank you very much indeed,” Mona said, rising and 
tendering her fee. 

“ Nonsense ! we are none of us cannibals, as your great 
Scotch iEsculapius says. I don’t take fees from students 
and nurses.” 

“ But I am not studying in order to support myself.” 

“ I can’t help that. Now I wonder if you mean to take 
my advice as well as my tonic ? ” She asked the question 
quite dispassionately, as if it only interested her in an ab- 
stract way. 

“ If you don’t accept a fee,” Mona said in an injured 
tone, “ you bind me over to take your advice.” 

“ Ah ! if that’s the case, I wish I could afford to refuse 
fees from all my patients. G-ood-bye. Send me a line from 
Bournemouth to tell me how you get on. I wish I could 
be of more use to you ! ” And for the first time a look 
of very genuine sympathy shot from the honest brown 
eyes. 

“Well?” said Sir Douglas, when he saw Mona that 
evening. 


378 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Dr. Bateson says I am to go to Bournemouth with 
Aunt Maud.” 

“ Monsense ! Did she really ? ” 

Warmly as Sir Douglas approved of women doctors, it j 
was a source of great surprise to him that they should 
recommend anything sensible. 

And so it came to pass that Mona began by degrees 
to pick up fresh health and strength in spite of everything. 
She could not shake off her worry ; but day by day, to her 
own surprise, it weighed on her more bearably. 

One morning near the end of April she took up a copy 
of the Times , and her eye fell on the following notice — “ On 
the 23d inst., at Carlton Lodge, Borrowness, Eleanor Jane, 
relict of the late George Hamilton, Esq., J.P. and D.L. of 
the County, in her 79th year.” 

“ So she came home to die,” Mona thought ; “ and now 
— now I suppose he will come up to London and go on with ; 
his work. I wonder if he will present himself at Burling- i 
ton House for his medal next month ? For, if he does, I | 
shall see him.” 

And it was well that Presentation Day was so near, or 
Dr. Bateson might have been disappointed after all in the 
results of her prescription. 


CHAPTER LIV. 

PRESENTATION DAY. 

The eventful day dawned at last, clear and bright, with 
a summer sky and a fresh spring breeze. 

“ One would think I was a bride at the very least,” 
Mona said, laughing, when Lucy and Evelyn came in to 
help her to dress. 

“ If you think we would take this amount of trouble 
for a common or garden bride,” said Lucy loftily, “ you are 
profoundly mistaken. Bride, indeed ! ” 

Sir Douglas had insisted on giving Mona an undergradu- 
ate’s gown, heavy and handsome as it could be made ; and 


PRESENTATION DAY. 


370 


the sight of her in that, and in a most becoming trencher, 
did more to reconcile him to her study of Medicine than 
any amount of argument could have done. 

“ Distinctly striking ! ” was Mona’s comment, when 
Lucy and Evelyn stopped dancing round her, and allowed 
her to see herself in the pier-glass. And she was perfectly 
right. Never in all her bright young life had she looked so 
charming as she did that Presentation Day. 

“You will go to the function to-day, Ralph?” said 
Melville to his friend the same morning. 

“ Not I ! God bless my soul ! when a man has gradu- 
ated at Edinburgh and Cambridge, he can afford to dis- 
pense with a twopenny- half-penny function at Burlington 
House.” 

“ I thought you admitted that, even in comparison with 
Cambridge and Edinburgh, London has its points ? ” 

“ So do I. But the graduation ceremony is not one of 
them. Ceremonial does not sprout kindly on nineteenth- 
century soil. One misses the tradition, the aroma of faith, 
the grand roll of the In nomine Pair is. Call it supersti- 
tion, humbug, what you will, but materialism is confound- 
edly inartistic.” 

“ Spoken like a book with pictures. But without en- 
tering fully into the question of Atheism versus Christian- 
ity, the point at issue is briefly this : I have got a ticket for 
the affair, for the first time in my life, and I want to ap- 
plaud somebody I know. Sweet girl graduates are all very 
well, but I decline to waste all my adolescent enthusiasm on 
a physiologist in petticoats.” 

“ By the way, a woman did get the Physiology Medal, 
did not she ? ” And Dudley felt a faint, awakening curios- 
ity to see that other Miss Maclean. 

“ Oh, if it is going to make you sigh like that,” said 
Melville, “ I withdraw all I have said. I have no wish to 
sacrifice you on the altar of friendship.” 

“ Did I sigh ? ” said Ralph very wearily. “ It was not 
for that. Oh yes, dear boy, I’ll go. It won’t be the first 
time I have made a fool of myself for your sake.” 

And he did feel himself very much of a fool when, a few 
hours later, he went up on the platform of the crowded 
theatre to receive the pretty golden toy. The experience rc- 


830 


MONA MACLEAN. 


minded liim of his brilliant schoolboy days, and he half ex- 
pected some kindly old gentleman to clap him on the shoul- 
der as he went back to his seat. He was thankful to escape 
into insignificance again ; and then, adjusting his gold- 
rimmed spectacles, he proceeded to watch for Miss Mona 
Maclean. 

It was well that he had ceased to be the centre of attrac- 
tion in the theatre. Ealph was not a blushing man, but a 
moment later his face became as red as the cushioned seats 
of the hall, and when the wave of colour passed away, it 
left him ashy pale. At the first sight of that dear familiar 
face, beautiful to-day with excitement, as he had seen it at 
Castle Maclean, his hard, aggrieved feeling against her van- 
ished, and he thought only how good it would be to speak 
to her again. He was proud of her beauty, proud of the 
ovation she received, proud of his love for her. 

But while the tedious ceremony went on, the facts of 
the case came back to him one by one, like common objects 
that have been blotted for the moment out of view by some 
dazzling light. His face settled into a heavy frown. 

“ I will walk along Kcgent Street with her,” he thought, 
“ and ask her what it all meant.” 

At last the “ function ” was over. Mona seemed to be 
surrounded by congratulating friends, and so indeed was 
he ; but before many minutes had passed he found himself 
following her out of the hall, — gaining on her. She was 
very pale. Was it reaction after the excitement of the 
ceremony ? or did she know that he was behind her ? 

In another moment he would have spoken, but during 
that moment a bluff, elderly professor, who had been look- 
ing at Mona with much interest and perplexity, suddenly 
seized her hand. 

“ Why, I declare it is Yum-Yum !” he exclaimed en- 
thusiastically. “ No wonder she took us by surprise on a 
deserted coast, when she wins an ovation like this at Bur- 
lington House ! ” 

Mona stopped to speak, and Dudley passed on. 

No wonder, indeed ! What a blind bat, what an utter 
imbecile, he had been ! and how he had babbled to her of 
his past, present, and future, while she had sat looking at 
him, with infinite simplicity and frankness in her honest 
eyes ! 


PRESENTATION DAY. 


381 


His lip curled with a cynical smile. 

“ Bravo, old chap ! ” said Melville’s friendly voice. “ It 
was a genuine consolation to my misanthropic mind to re- 
flect that one of those medals was well earned.” 

Ralph stopped for a minute or two to speak to his friend, 
and then went down the steps. Most of the carriages had 
gone, but, a few yards from the door, a pair of fine bays 
were pawing the ground. Ralph looked up and recognised 
his Anglo-Indian friend, Sir Douglas Munro ; but Sir 
Douglas was waiting for a lady, and had no eyes for the 
clever young doctor. Ralph’s glance wandered on to the 
next carriage, and when it came idly back to the bays, he 
saw that the lady had arrived. Nay, more, the lady was 
looking at him with a very eloquent fac^. 

“ Dr. Dudley,” she said, almost below her breath. 

In a moment every trace of expression vanished from 
Dudley’s face, and with a slightly exaggerated courtesy, but 
without the faintest shadow of a smile, he lifted his hat and 
walked on. 

A minute later, the mail-phaeton bowled past him. 
Dudley laughed gloomily. And he had meant her to trudge 
along Regent Street with him, and “tell him what it all 
meant ” ! What a hopeless imbecile he had been ! 

How could he guess that Mona would cheerfully have 
given three years’ income to leave her uncle at that mo- 
ment, and “ trudge along Regent Street ” with him ? 

“ Who is that young fellow ? ” Sir Douglas was saying. 
“ I seem to know his face.” 

“ He is a Dr. Dudley,” Mona answered, stooping low to 
arrange the carriage-rug over her feet. 

“ Oh, to be sure. I remember — a clever fellow.” Sir 
Douglas fell a-musing for a few minutes. “ How did you 
pick him up, Mona ? He told me when I last saw him that 
he did not know any of the women-students.” 


882 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER LV. 

ONE OF HER “ VERY BEST FRIENDS.” 

“ I have an idea, Mona,” said Lucy. 

“ Have you, dear ? I wish I had ! ” 

The two girls were in the Gower Street garden again, 
and Lucy was swinging lazily in the hammock, just as she 
had done that summer day nearly two years before. 

“ You know I told you the Pater had had a little money 
left him ? ” 

“ Yes, and very glad I was to hear it.” 

“ Well, the morql see of what is being done in a medical 
way in the hub of The profession here, the more I am in- 
clined to think it might be worth while for the Mater to 
come into town.” 

Mona did not answer for a minute or two. She was 
trying to intensify her recollections of Mrs. Reynolds’s some- 
what mysterious illness. 

“ I think it is extremely likely,” she said at last. 

“ I would take her to Dr. Bateson, get her to go into the 
case thoroughly, and then choose any specialist she liked — 
man or woman — to consult with. Don’t you think that 
would be wise ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“ It is perfectly awful to think how helpless people are 
who are quite outside the profession. I think it is worth 
while studying Medicine, if only to be able to tell your 
friends whom to consult, — or rather, whom not to consult.” 

“ I know. When I am low-spirited I brood over all the 
people whose deaths I might have prevented, if I had 
known what I know now. If I were a reformer, like Miss 
Lascelles, there is one change I would try to work in the 
profession. Every family able to pay for a doctor at all 
should give a yearly amount to some sharp-eyed, keen-wit- 
ted, common-sense man or woman, who would keep an eye 
on the children, and detect the first trace of struma, or lat- 
eral curvature, or any of the neuroses. He need not be a 
great don at all. He must understand the dynamics of a 
vital organism in relation to its surroundings — ” 

“ The what ? ” said Lucy. 


ONE OF HER “VERY BEST FRIENDS. 3 


383 


“ — know the value of iron and cod-liver oil ; and, above 
all, see when the moment has arrived to send for a special- 
ist. It seems to me that half the mistakes that are made 
would be prevented, if that plan were carried out.” 

“ Or you might adopt the Chinese system, — salary the 
doctor, and stop his pay when you get ill.” 

Mona laughed. “ The fact is, the public has not begun 
to realise yet how Medicine is specialised, and most doctors 
are afraid to tell them.” 

There was a few minutes’ silence. 

“ Edgar Davidson took me over to St. Kunigonde’s yes- 
terday,” said Lucy presently. 

“ Who is Edgar Davidson ? ” 

“I wish somebody would prescribe for your memory, 
Mona. Believe me, the moment has come, when your jog- 
trot, common-sense adviser ” — she bowed — 44 suggests a spe- 
cialist. Don’t you remember the boy we met at Monte 
Carlo ? ” 

“ Oh yes, to be sure.” 

“ He is developing a very wholesome admiration for me.” 

“ I thought boy- worshippers were the special appanage 
of middle-aged women, like myself ! ” 

“ He is not such a boy, after all,” said Lucy, colouring 
slightly. “ And all his worship is reserved for a wonderful 
fellow-student of his, whom he introduced to me yester- 
day — Dr. Dudley.” 

Mona rearranged her cushions. 

“ Do you still believe in nice men, Mona ? ” 

44 I always did.” 

“ Ah, that’s a pity. You will never know the joys of 
conversion.” 

44 Who has been converting the pessimist in the ham- 
mock ? ” 

“ Oh, I am a hopeless sceptic. But I like Dr. Dudley 
all the same. He seems to have an awfully good influence 
on the students. He is a good deal older than they are, and 
he lives his life according to his-own tastes, without posing 
as a saint or being mistaken for a muff. What I liked was 
his manner with those horrid dirty 4 casuals.’ And then he 
is just enough of a cynic to give an edge to it all.” 

44 1 am afraid I am too old to appreciate cynics.” 

44 Poor soul ! ” said Lucy in a tone of profound commiser- 


3SL 


MONA MACLEAN. 


ation. “ Life is indeed a thing of the past for you. Cynics 
are the spice of the world. However, it seems to me the 
Mater should come up at once. It would not do for her to 
be here during the hottest of the summer. I will write to 
her this very day.” 

Lucy proceeded to alight from the hammock as she 
spoke. 

“ By the way, Mona,” she said suddenly, “ you must have 
seen Dr. Dudley. He was Anatomy medallist.” 

“ Yes,” said Mona, and she said no more. She hoped 
the broad brim of her garden-hat would conceal the white- 
ness of her face. 

This was almost the first time that any outsider had 
spoken to her of Dr. Dudley, and she was amazed to find 
how strong was her sense of possession in him. It was very 
characteristic of her that after the first moment of indigna- 
tion, she scarcely blamed Dudley at all for his frigid greet- 
ing in Burlington Cardens. She realised vividly how things 
must look from his point of view — so vividly that, with that 
quick power of seeing both sides of a question which was 
her compensation for “ not being a reformer,” she saw also 
her own danger, and cried out in her heart, “ Whatever hap- 
pens, let me not lose my pride ! ” 

“ I want you to come and have tea with me at the Hall 
on Saturday,” Lucy said when the friends met at hospital 
a few days later. “ Knowing your love for what you are 
pleased to call 4 sensuous beauty,’ I have asked Edgar David- 
son’s sister to meet you. She has just come home from San 
Remo, and she really is the prettiest girl I ever saw in mv 
life.” J 

. “ I would go a long way to see a really beautiful woman,” 
said Mona, laughing ; “ but I have a young friend whose 
swans show an awkward tendency to revert into ugly duck- 
lings.” 

“ Ah, well ! wait till you see Miss Davidson ! ” 

And when Saturday afternoon came, Mona confessed 
that Lucy was right. There could be no doubt that An- 
gela Davidson was a beauty. A winter in the South had 
banished every apparent trace of delicacy, while leaving be- 
hind a bloom that was really flower-like. 

“ Miss Reynolds tells me that Lady Munro is your aunt,” 
she said to Mona. “ Do you think she would mind my 


ONE OF HER “VERY BEST FRIENDS . 5 


385 


calling to thank her for her wonderful kindness to Edgar 
at Monte Carlo ? ” 

“ I am sure she would be delighted to see you,” Mona 
answered warmly ; “ but I expect she has entirely forgotten 
the incident.” 

“ I shall not forget it as long as I live. Edgar never 
knew what it was to have a mother ; and it seems as if peo- 
ple understood by a kind of instinct how terribly unwilling 
I was to leave him without a sister.” 

“ A propos of that,” said Lucy, “ Miss Maclean is a co- 
medallist with Dr. Dudley.” 

Miss Davidson raised wondering eyes. 44 You must be 
awfully clever,” she said simply. 

44 Oh no ; I failed twice before I carried home the medal. 
Do you know Dr. Dudley?” 

She scarcely even blushed as she asked the question. 
She was delighted at her own assurance and self-possession. 

The girl’s beautiful face lighted up. 44 1 should think I 
did,” she said. 44 He has been the turning-point in my 
brother’s life. There is no one in the world to whom I owe 
so much as to Ralph Dudley.” 

A curious pain shot through Mona’s heart. She had 
never experienced anything like it before, and it was gone 
before she could ask herself what it meant. 

A few minutes later she rose to go. 

44 1 am afraid it is taking a great liberty, with any one 
so busy and so clever,” Miss Davidson said, in her pretty 
childlike fashion ; 44 but I should be so proud if you would 
come and see me next Thursday. Miss Reynolds has prom- 
ised to come, and I am expecting some of my very best 
friends.” 

44 1 will come with pleasure,” said Mona quickly ; and 
this time a more perceptible colour rose into her white fore- 
head. She wanted to see this beautiful girl again, and — it 
would be interesting to know whether 44 Ralph Dudley” 
was one of her 44 very best friends.” 

That night as she sat by the open window in the twi- 
light, looking out on the lime-trees in the garden, the 
same unaccountable pain came over her, and she proceeded 
to analyse it mercilessly. For a long time she remained 
there with a deep furrow on her brow. 

44 1 thought I had attained,” she said at last. 44 Were 
25 


386 


MONA MACLEAN. 


they all for nothing, those years of striving after the high- 
est, with strong crying and tears? I thought I had at- 
tained, and here I am, at the end of it, only a common- 
place, jealous woman after all l ” 

“Well,” said Lucy the next day. “Did I exaggerate? 
or is she as sweet and as pretty as they make ’em nowa- 
days ? ” 

“ I think she is,” Mona said reflectively. “ But don’t 
introduce her to other people as a ‘ sensuous beauty.’ The 
world is misleading in that connection.” 

“ So I suppose. I used it in strict accordance with your 
own definition.” 

“ No doubt ; but you will find that, on hearing it, the 
popular imagination flies at once to a Rubens’s model.” 

“ I am so glad you promised to go and see her on Thurs- 
day. I was afraid you would not. When you were gone, I 
made her promise to ask Dr. Dudley to meet us.” 

“ Lucy ! ” 

“ Why not? I like him, and it must be most refreshing 
to him, after all the learned women he meets, to have this 
ignorant, beautiful creature look at him with great worship- 
ping eyes.” 

“ And you don’t mind her telling him that we wish to 
meet him ? ” 

“ Oh, she won’t do that. I told her not to breathe the 
words ‘ medical student.’ It would be enough to keep him 
away. A man does not go out to afternoon tea with the 
prospect of being waylaid on the threshold of the drawing- 
room by an advanced woman who calls upon him to ‘ forget 
sex. 

But Mona was not listening. 

“ It is so schoolgirl, so undignified. I would not stoop 
to ask a mere acquaintance not to repeat something I had 
said.” 

But now it was Lucy’s turn to fire up. 

. “ And suppose she does repeat it ? ” she said. “ Is it a 
crime to say one wants to meet a good and clever man, who 
is years and years older than one’s self ? If it is a crime, I 
can only say your influence over me for the last three years 
has been less elevating than I supposed. You have a per- 
fect right to be inconsistent, Mona ; but if you expect me 


A VISITOR FROM BORROWNESS. 387 

j to be inconsistent at the same moment, and on precisely the 
! same lines, you might give me a little warning ! ” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

A VISITOR FROM BORROWNESS. 

“ Dr. Dudley, let me introduce yon to Miss Maclean.” 

Almost any hostess would have effected that introduc- 
| tion under the circumstances. Ralph and Mona were the 
two people in the crowded little drawing-room who made 
their presence felt ; who, unconsciously to themselves, sug- 
gested grave responsibilities on the part of their hostess; 
therefore by all means let them entertain each other. 

Mona bowed, as she would have done to a stranger, and 
Dudley seated himself by her side. Without a moment’s 
hesitation he began to discuss a book that lay on the table, 
and never had Mona admired his gift of utterance more. It 
was not that he said anything peculiarly brilliant, but he 
talked so easily and fluently that even she could not tell 
whether his self-possession was real or assumed. She would 
have been in less doubt on the subject, perhaps, if she had 
trusted herself to meet his eye when he entered the drawing- 
room. As it was, she was determined not to be outdone, so 
for nearly half an hour the stream of conversation ran light- 
ly on. 

At length several people rose to go, and, in the slight 
stir this involved, Ralph and Mona were left alone and un- 
noticed for a moment, in the oriel window. 

In an instant the conversation ceased and their eyes met. 

“ Dr. Dudley,” Mona said impulsively, in a very low 
voice, “ what have I done ? ” 

The same honest eyes as of old — the eyes that had smiled 
and deceived him. 

“ Done ? ” he said coldly, with an accent of surprise. 
“ Nothing whatsoever. I was under a stupid misapprehen- 
sion as to the terms on which we stood ; but I have long 
since seen my mistake. That is all.” 


388 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Even as he spoke, his lips quivered. One word more 
from her might have dragged aside the flimsy veil ; but 
she, too, had her pride. 

“ Well, I am afraid I must go,” she said present!} 7 , as 
Miss Davidson returned to her remaining guests. “ Don’t 
let me hurry you, Lucy; I must get that book you men- 
tioned out of the library.” 

She bowed to Dudley with a frank cordiality that was 
far more cutting than his coldness, shook hands with her 
hostess, and went away. Lucy, of course, accompanied her, 
and Dudley was left to reap what he had sown. 

But Mona could not bear even Lucy’s society to-day, and 
she made an excuse for parting from her before they had 
gone many hundred yards. Then her lithe figure straight- 
ened itself defiantly. 

“ Two chances I have given him,” she said to herself ; 
“ and now, come what mav, he shall make the third him- 
self !” 

When Mona came in from hospital a few days later, she 
was met by the announcement that a gentleman had called 
to see her, and had said he would return in the evening. 

“ Did he leave no name?” she asked in some surprise. 

“ No, ma’am, he said it was of no consequence.” Mona 
bethought herself of Mr. Reynolds. 

“ Was he an old gentleman?” she said. 

“ Oh no, ma’am ; a youngish gentleman, tall and thin.” 

Mona’s heart leaped. “ Show him up to my sitting-room 
when he comes,” she said quietly. 

She went to her lecture as usual that afternoon, but 
found it difficult to give her full attention to the varieties, 
causes, and treatment of aneurism. The moment the class 
was over she hurried home, dressed with more than usual 
care, rearranged her flowers, dined without knowing what 
was on the table, and then seated herself in her rocking- 
chair with a book. 

But she did not read. She proceeded to make a leisure- 
ly, critical survey of the room. It looked very pretty just 
now in the soft evening light, and at worst it was a pictur- 
esque, suggestive place. 

She rose to her feet and redraped a curtain ; then she 
glanced with satisfaction at the soft folds of her gown, and 


A VISITOR FROM BORROWNESS. 


389 


seated herself again with a sigh. How sensible of him it 
was to come to her quietly, here in her own territory, where 
they could talk over everything thoroughly, and explain all 
misunderstandings ! 

A loud rat-tat-tat resounded through the house. Alas, 
she knew that imperious knock only too well ! A minute 
later Sir Douglas and her aunt entered the room. 

“ You do look well,” he said, holding her at arm’s length 
before he kissed her. “ I never saw you with such a 
colour.” 

“ And your rooms are so charming,” said Lady Munro. 
“ I like them a great deal better than ours in Gloucester 
Place.” 

Mona laughed. She was well used by this time to her 
aunt’s figures of speech. 

“ We are on our way to dinner at the Lacys’, and as we 
had ten minutes to spare — ” 

“ For a wonder ! ” growled Sir Douglas. 

“ — Douglas was determined to look in upon you.” 

Mona smiled across brightly to her uncle, but she fer- 
vently hoped the ten minutes would be over before Dr. 
Dudley arrived. It was at least fortunate that the engage- 
ment was dinner. 

The ten minutes, however, still had half their course to 
run when Mona heard a timid knock at the street-door. 

“ That can’t be his,” she said to herself. But she did 
not find it easy to preserve her self-control when she heard 
footsteps coming up-stairs. 

A moment later the door was thrown open, and the par- 
lour-maid announced, “ Mr. Brown from Borrowness.” 

Mona’s heart stood still, but the situation had to be faced. 

“ How kind of you to come and see me ! ” she said, going 
forward to meet him. “ Aunt Maud, Uncle Douglas, this is 
my friend Mr. Brown.” 

She laid the least possible deliberate emphasis on the 
words “my friend,” and she turned to her uncle right 
proudly as she said them. 

Sir Douglas had risen from his chair when she did, and 
now he bowed somewhat formally. The lines of his mouth 
were a little hard. Possibly he found it difficult to suppress 
a smile. 

Mona made a motion of her head towards an easy-chair, 


390 


MONA MACLEAN. 


and Mr. Brown seated himself on the edge of it, wiping his 
brow with a large silk handkerchief. 

“ I was coming up to town on business,” he said shyly, 
“ so I got your address from Mrs. Easson.” 

“ Oh yes. How is Mrs. Easson ? ” 

“ She wasn’t very well a week or two back, but she seems 
pretty much in her usual again.” 

Mona turned to her aunt. “ Mr. Brown is a fellow- 
enthusiast of mine on the subject of botany,” she said. 
“ He is the greatest living authority on the fauna and flora 
of the district in which he lives. I want him to write a 
book on the subject.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Lady Munro, with a pretty assumption 
of interest. 

Mr. Brown shook his head. “ Mo, no,” he said, “ Pro- 
fessor Bristowe was saying that ; but you would need to be 
familiar with the whole county before you could write a book 
that would be worth while reading, and I never have time to 
get very far. It’s only once a- week that I can get an after- 
noon away from the shop, and now I shall have less time than 
ever.” He looked rather sheepishly at Mona. “ They’ve 
just over-persuaded me to take the Provostship.” 

“ I am glad to hear they have shown so much sense,” she 
answered cordially. “ I don’t know whether you are to be 
congratulated or not, but I am quite sure they are.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know that. They could easily have got 
somebody who was more of a hand at speeches, but they 
would take no refusal, so to say.” 

There was a pause. 

“ I suppose you have just come up to town ? ” Sir Doug- 
las remarked affably ; and Mona looked at him with infinite 
gratitude. 

“ I came up last night.” He looked again at Mona. “ I 
was here once before, to-day.” 

She smiled. “ I heard that somebody had called, but I 
did not know it was you. I am sorry you had the trouble 
of coming twice. I suppose you find London a great deal 
warmer than Borrowness ? ” 

“ It’s warm everywhere just now.” He turned to Sir 
Douglas, with an idea that his next remark w r as peculiarly 
suited to masculine ears. “ It’s very poor weather for the 
turnips.” 


A VISITOR FROM BORROWNESS. 


391 


“All! I suppose it is,” Sir Douglas said, so genially 
that Mr. Brown took courage, and looked at Mona’s aunt. 

Lady Munro’s Indian shawl had fallen back, and the 
draper made a mental valuation of her heavy silk dress. It 
would be no use keeping a thing like that in his shop. 
Then his eye fell on Sir Douglas, and for the first time in 
his life he realised that a man could wear evening-dress 
without making a fool of himself. From the easily-fitting 
swallow-tail his eye passed to the spotless, dazzling shirt- 
front, and, with something of a blush, he pulled the sleeves 
of his tweed coat over the cuffs which his sister had so care- 
fully trimmed before he left home. 

“ I am afraid we shall have to go,” Lady Munro said, 
glancing at Mona’s carriage clock ; and, as she rose, she 
looked somewhat pointedly at Mr. Brown. 

The hint was lost on him, however. He bowed awk- 
wardly to Lady Munro, and waited till Mona returned to 
the sitting-room. 

“ Miss Maclean,” he blurted out hastily, “ you will be 
disposed to laugh at me when I tell you I came here to ask 
you to be my wife. I knew you were far above me, but I 
had no notion of the like of this. You’ve no need to tell 
me that it can never be, but if ever you stand in need of a 
plain man’s friendship, you know who to come to.” 

He held out his hand, forgetful of the frayed cuff, and 
Mona’s .eyes filled with tears as she took it. 

“ It is true it can never be, Mr. Brown,” she said — “ not 
because I am above you, but because I don’t love you as a 
good woman will some day. But I shall be proud and 
grateful, as long as I live, to think that so good a man has 
honoured me with his love.” 

She went with him to the door, and with a few common- 
place words they parted. 

For the first time in her life Mona felt something of a 
contempt for Dr. Dudley. 

“ What a fool I am,” she thought, “ to break my heart 
for you, when at least two greater men have wanted to make 
me their wife ! ” 

But, even as she spoke, she knew that her words were 
not perfectly just. 


392 


MONA MACLEAN. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY. 

Lucy had taken rooms for her mother in an unpreten- 
tious square in Bloomsbury, and Mr. Reynolds had gladly 
agreed to spend his short summer holiday with his wife and 
daughter in London. Hr. Alice Bateson had called the 
day after their arrival, and had gone into the case very 
thoroughly. 

“ There is no doubt that your mother must have an op- 
eration,” she had said to Lucy, in her brusque fashion, “ but it 
is nothing that need make you unhappy. So far as one can 
see, there is not the smallest danger involved, and she will 
be a different being when it is over. I would like her to 
rest, and take a tonic for a week or so, in order to get up 
her strength as much as possible ; but I should not advise 
her to postpone it any longer than that.” 

Lucy w’as in great spirits. “ What say you to that, 
Daddy,” she cried, “ as the first-fruits of your investment 
in me? We shall see Mother on the top of Snowdon before 
the summer is over.” 

“ I think we shall be glad to rest content with something 
short of that,” he said smiling, and stroking his wife’s thin 
hair. 

The operation was successfully accomplished in due 
course, and as soon as Mrs. Reynolds was well on the way 
to recovery, Lucy insisted on taking her father about “ to 
see something of life,” as she expressed it. 

“ I thought I knew the height and depth and breadth 
and length of your aunt’s fascination,” she said to Mona, 
when the latter came in one day with a basket of hothouse 
fruit for the invalid, “ but I do wish you had seen her with 
Father when we called. She was a perfect woman, and a 
perfect child. He was awfully impressed — thinks in his 
heart that she is thrown away on Sir Douglas, which, in the 
immortal words of Euclid, is absurd. Lady Munro told me 
afterwards that Father made her wish she could go back 
and live her life all over again. 4 It is so strange,’ she said 
with exquisite frankness, ‘ that he should be your father.’ 
‘ Degeneration, a Chapter on Darwinism, in fact,’ I sug- 


A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY. 393 

gested ; but she only smiled sweetly and said, 4 What do you 
mean, child? ’” 

“ Was Sir Douglas at home?” 

“ He came in for a few minutes at the end. He and my 
father got on all right. Of course they only met as — ” she 
paused. 

“ Of course — as two men of the world.” 

“Do you call my father a man of the world ? ” Lucy 
asked, surprised and pleased. 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ Of this world, or the other ? ” 

Mona raised her eyes slowly. “ Looked at from your 
father’s point of view, it is a little difficult to say where this 
world ends and the other begins. He would tell you that 
this is the other world, and the other world is this.” 

“ No, indeed, he would not. Father never gets on to 
the eternals with me.” 

This was rather a sore point with Lucy, so she hastened 
on, “ Do you know your aunt’s 4 At Home ’ is going to be 
no end of an affair ? ” 

“ Is it?” 

“ Yes ; I am in a state of wild excitement. Father is 
giving me a new gown.” 

“ I am frivolling shamefully this week,” Mona said. “ I 
have promised to go to the Bernards at Surbiton from Sat- 
urday to Monday. I don’t think I ought to go to my aunt’s 
as well.” 

“ Tell Sir Douglas that ! By the way, while you are 
here, you might cast your eagle eye through that micro- 
scope, and tell me what the slide is. I forgot to label it at 
the time, and now I can’t spot it.” 

Mona bent over Lucy’s work-table in the window. “ I 
suppose you are not used to picrocarmine,” she said. “ It 
is only a ‘ venous congestion,’ but it is cut far too thick. I 
can give you a much better one.” 

“Just scribble ‘venous congestion’ on the label, will 
you? before I forget again. Now I think of it, Miss 
Clarke told me it must be ‘ venous congestion,’ because that 
was the only red one we had mounted on a large slide ! 
You wilf be shocked to hear, Mona, that I made Father 
take me to hear Dr. Dudley’s lecture last night. That 
man’s voice is worth a fortune ! ” 


394 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Far too thick,” repeated Mona, with unnecessary em- 
phasis. “ You can make out nothing with the high power 
at all. Where was he lecturing ? ” 

“ To his Literary Society. Angela Davidson sent a note 
to tell me. It really was magnificent — on The Rose in 
Tennyson. I thought I knew my Tennyson, but Dr. Dud- 
ley’s insight seemed to me perfectly wonderful. He was 
showing how, all through Tennyson’s poems, the red rose 
means love, and he showed it in a thousand things I had 
never thought of before. lie began with The Gardener's 
Daughter , and with simple idyllic quotations, like 

‘ Her feet have touched the meadows, 

And left the daisies rosy.’ 

And he showed us how the whole world becomes a rose to 
the lover. You know the passage, beginning, ‘ Go not, 
happy day.’ Then he worked us gradually on to the 
tragedy of love, — 

‘ I almost fear they are not roses, but blood.’ 

It made one’s flesh creep to hear him say that. And again 
triumphantly, — 

‘ The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.’ 

Then he took us by surprise, passed beyond human love 
altogether, and ended up with God’s rose : — 

i At last I heard a voice upon the slope 
Cry to the summit, “ Is there any hope ? ” 

To which an answer pealed from that high land, 

But in a tongue no man could understand ; 

And on the glittering limit far withdrawn 
God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.’ 

I did not understand it all ; but, when he stopped, I found 
my eyes were full of tears, and Father was so struck that 
he went up to speak to Dr. Dudley before we came away.” 

Mona said nothing. What would she not have given 
to have heard that lecture ! 

“But here comes Dad,” Lucy went on. “Father, I 
want you to tell Mona about that lecture last night.” 

“Your mother wants you, dear,” he said, laying his 


A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY. 395 

hand on her shoulder, and then he seated himself by the 
open window. 

“Yes, I confess I was very much struck,” he said. 
“ One rarely meets with such fine — appreciation. It seems 
to me that young man will make his mark. I should 
greatly like his help with a little bit of work I am doing on 
Wordsworth just now, so I asked him to come and see me 
some evening. He promised very cordially to do so to- 
morrow, and now I want him to meet my elder daughter. 
If you can spare the time, I am sure you would enjoy hear- 
ing him talk. Will you come ? ” 

Mona retained sufficient presence of mind to wonder 
whether it was worth while trying to conceal how far she 
had lost it, and then she turned her white face to Mr. 

; Reynolds. 

“ I think I had better not come,” she said, rather 
breathlessly. “ I — know Dr. Dudley.” 

Hay, verily ! If ever they met again, it should be no 
doing of hers. 

“ Just as you please, dear, of course.” 

She was a little surprised that Mr. Reynolds asked no 
questions. She did not know that she had already given 
him the remaining links of her story, and that the chain 
in his mind was now practically complete. 

All through the lecture on the previous evening, Dudley 
had wondered vaguely to whom the grand white head be- 
longed, and when the owner of it came up at the close, and 
told him how much he had enjoyed the evening, Dudley 
felt the compliment much more keenly than most clever 
young men would have done. He was drawing sufficiently 
near the farther boundary of youth to dread the advance of 
age ; and his love and admiration for Mrs. Hamilton made 
a warm corner in his heart for all old people. 

He arrived early on the evening of his appointment, and 
knocked at the door with a»good deal of pleasant anticipa- 
tion. The Reynolds seemed to have brought with them to 
London the atmosphere of their country home. The room 
was sweet with old-fashioned flowers, tea and fruit and 
home-made cake were laid out on the spotless cloth, and the 
windows were opened wide on a world of green. Moreover, 
the very sight of Mr. Reynolds’s refined and beautiful face 
seemed to throw the dust and turmoil of the world outside 


396 


MONA MACLEAN. 


into the far distance. Petty aims lost half their attraction, 
the ideal became more real, when one entered that plain 
little room. “ Is this really London ? ” Dudley said, as he 
shook hands with the invalid on the sofa. 

“ I am happy to say it* is,” she answered, smiling. 
“ London has done great things for me.” 

“ That is right. We hear so much of its misdeeds now- 
adays that it is refreshing to be brought in contact with the 
other side of the question.” 

In a few minutes Lucy came in, bright and smiling. 
Dudley had not noticed her with her father at the lecture, 
and her relationship to the saintly old clergyman was as 
great a surprise to him as it had been to Lady Munro. 

“ How I wish I had asked Mona to come in ! ” she ex- 
claimed, as she seated herself in front of the tea-tray. 

No one answered, but Mr. Reynolds glanced at his vis- 
itor’s face. 

“ You know who I mean,” Lucy went on, turning to 
Dudley, “my friend Miss Maclean. You were talking to 
her for a long time at the Davidsons’ the other day. Is not 
she awfully clever ? ” 

“ Particularly, I should think.” 

There was no sneer in the words, but the frank, almost 
boyish simplicity, which had come so naturally to Dudley a 
few minutes before, was gone. 

“ ‘ Her price is far above rubies,’ ” quoted Mr. Revnolds 
quietly. 

It was Dudley’s turn now to raise his eyes, and glance 
quickly at his host. 

Whenever there was a pause in the conversation, Lucy 
had some fresh tale to tell about Mona. This was nothing 
new with her, and Mr. Reynolds made no effort to prevent 
it. He thought it a fortunate chance that, without a hint 
from him, she should thus unconsciously play so effectually 
into his hands. He could scarcely tell whether Dr. Dudley 
found the conversation trying or not, but there could be no 
doubt that the young man was profoundly interested. 

“Do you know Sir Douglas Munro?” he said suddenly 
to Lucy. 

“ Oh yes, very well indeed. Do you?” 

“ I met him accidentally, a year or two ago, and the 
other day I called to ask him to give me his votes for a case 


A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY. 397 

I am trying to get into the Incurable Hospital. He was 
very cordial, and asked me to a musical evening at his house 
to-morrow.” 

“ . do 8 ° - . Ifc is g° in g to be splendid, and I expect 
you will hear Miss Maclean sing. She has such a sympa- 
thetic voice.” 

Wordsworth received but scant justice when the two men 
retired to Mr. Reynolds’s study. Each felt strongly the 
spiritual kinship of the other, and they talked as men rarely 
do talk at a first or second meeting. 

“ 1 have stayed an unconscionable time,” Ralph said at 
last, “ and I hope you will let me come again. I can scarce- 
ly tell you what you have done for me. You have made me 
feel that ‘ the best is yet to be.”’ 

Mr. Reynolds did not answer immediately. When he 
did it was to say somewhat dreamily — 

“ ‘ But I need now as then, 

Thee, God, who mouldest men.’ 

I wish I had your voice, Hr. Dudley. With such an organ, 
and with such a faith, you ought to be able to move man- 
kind.” 

“Eaith?” repeated Dudley; “I am not overburdened 
with that.” 

“ By faith I did not mean creed. I was thinking of your 
lecture the other evening.” 

Dudley winced. “ That paper was not written yester- 
day,” he said. “ I had neither the heart nor the energy to 
write another, so I 

* Gored mine own thought, sold cheap what is most dear.’ 

Greater men than I have preached to-day the faith of yester- 
day, in the hope that it might return to-morrow. But I am 
afraid that sort of thing never does return.” 

“ Had you built your house upon the sand ? ” 

Ralph coloured. He could not honestly say that. 

“Dr. Dudley,” said the old man quietly, “you and I 
have been disposed to trust each other to-night. Before 
you go, there is one thing I want to tell you. You know 
that Miss Maclean is my daughter’s friend. I don’t know 
whether you are aware that she is as dear to me as my own 


398 


MONA MACLEAN. 


child ; that outside my own small family circle there is no 
woman living in whom I am so deeply interested. I invited 
her to meet you this evening, and she refused. If you had 
not made me respect you, I should not ask you, as I do now, 
to tell me why she refused ? ” 

Dudley’s face was a battle-field of conflicting emotions. 

“ What has she told you about me?” he said at last. 

“ She has never mentioned your name.” Mr. Reynolds 
hesitated ; and then made up his mind to risk all, and go 
on. “ One day I was praising her steadfastness of purpose 
in remaining in her uncongenial surroundings at Borrow- 
ness, and she told me, with an honesty of which I am not 
sure that you and I would have been capable, that — the 
people she met were not all uncongenial. She spoke as a 
girl speaks who has never thought of love or marriage ; but 
her words conveyed more to my mind than they meant to 
her.” 

Vague as Mr. Reynolds’s words were, he could have 
chosen no surer key to unlock Ralph’s heart. A vivid pic- 
ture of the old idyllic days at Castle Maclean flashed across 
his mind, and with it came an almost unbearable sense of 
regret. Oh, the pity of it ! the pity of it ! 

“ I will tell you ! ” he burst out suddenly. “ God knows 
it will be a relief to speak to any man, and I believe you 
will understand. Besides, I owe an explanation to some- 
body who cares for her. Ninety-nine men out of a hun- 
dred would have thought nothing of it, but to me it was 
just everything. If she failed me there, she failed me 
everywhere. One could reason about a crime, but you can’t 
reason about a subtle thing like that. It is in the grain of 
a man’s mind. If it strikes you, it strikes you ; and if it 
doesn’t strike you, it doesn’t strike you; and that’s final. 
It is everything or nothing. And the worst of it is, that as 
things stand, I have wronged her horribly, and I can’t put 
it right. If she were a common woman it would be a mat- 
ter of honour to ignore it all, and ask her to be one’s wife ; 
but she is Miss Maclean. If one’s heart is not in it, one 
must at least have the decency to let things alone and not 
insult her farther.” 

In the course of Mr. Reynolds’s experience as a clergy- 
man he had heard many incoherent confessions, but he had 
rarely listened to one which left him so completely in the 


A LECTURE BEFORE THE LITERARY SOCIETY. 399 

dark as this. His face betrayed no perplexity, however, as 
he said, “ Tell me how you met her, and where.” 

Then by degrees the truth began to dawn upon him. 
With bitter self-mockery, Dudley told the story of his doubt 
as to whether he could marry a “shop-girl”; told how his 
passion grew till it swept away all obstacles ; and then he 
just hinted at what took place that stormy night when he 
brought her home from the wood. 

“And you told her you loved her?” The words were 
spoken very quietly and as a matter of course. 

Dudley’s face flushed more deeply. 

“ I think we had both risen pretty well above the need 
of words that night,” he' said, with a nervous laugh. “ When 
an electric spark passes between two spheres — You see, I was 
weighed down by the feeling that I had wasted my life ; 

1 this London course was a sort of atonement; and I would 
I not ask a woman to be my wife till I had at least left all 
| schoolboy work behind me. But that night I forgot my- 

“ And when you met her next — ? ” 

“ I left Borrowness the next day.” Dudley’s lip curled. 
“ Our next meeting was a fine dramatic tableau at Burling- 
ton House, a modern version of the sudden transformation 
of Cinderella.” 

“ But you had written to her ? ” 

Dudley shook his head. “ I had told her — before that 
night — that I should not be a free man till my examination 
was over in July. She was so quick ; she always seemed to 
understand. But when I went down to Borrowness, half 
mad with longing for her — her cousin had gone to America, 
and Miss Maclean, I was told, was starting for Switzerland 
with a party of friends.” 

“ Did you write to her then ? ” 

“ I did not know her address. And it was no use writ- 
ing about a thing like that. Then came my aunt’s long ill- 
ness. She was the best friend I had in the world, and she 
died.” 

He paused, and resumed with a sudden change of tone, 
“ Miss Maclean told me her name was Margaret.” 

“ Margaret is her second name.” 

“ Of course I know*,” Dudley broke out again vehe- 
mently, “that thousands of men would treat the whole 


400 


MONA MACLEAN. 


affair as a joke ; would be glad to find that the woman they 
loved had money and position, after all ; but I cared for 
Miss Maclean on a plane above that. It drives me mad to 
think how she sat looking at me with those honest eyes, 
listening to my confessions, and playing her pretty little 
burlesque all the time.” 

Mr. Reynolds waited for Dudley to go on before he spoke. 

“ Did it ever occur to you that Miss Maclean’s cousin 
might have asked her not to tell any one that she was a 
medical student?” 

There was a pause. 

“ Why should she?” Dudley asked harshly. 

“ Why she did it I presume was best known to herself — 
though, considering the kind of person she seems to have 
been, it does not strike me as particularly surprising ; but 
one thing I am in a position to say unhesitatingly, and that 
is, that she did do it.” 

Another long pause. 

“ Even if she did,” Dudley said, “ what was a trumpery 
promise like that between her and me if she loved me ? ” 

“ Perhaps you did not give her much opportunity to 
speak of herself ; but when I saw her in October, she cer- 
tainly did not love any man. Whether you taught her to 
love you afterwards, you are of course the best judge. I do 
not think she was bound to tell you before she knew that 
you loved her; and, judging from your own account of what 
took place, you do not seem to have made it very easy for a 
self-respecting woman to tell you afterwards.” 

Little by little the truth of this came home to Ralph, 
as he sat with his eyes fixed on the glowing embers of 
the fire. 

Mr. Reynolds gave his words time to take full effect, and 
then went on. 

“ When I think of how you have made that sensitive 
girl suffer, Dr. Dudley, I am tempted to forget that I owe 
my knowledge of the circumstances entirely to your court- 
esy.” 

Ralph looked up with a rather wintry smile. 

“ Don’t spare me,” he said. “ Hit hard ! ” And then 
there was another long silence. 

“ The one thing I cannot explain,” said Mr. Reynolds, 
“ is her telling you that her name was Margaret.” 


AT THE RECEPTION. 


401 


“ Oh, that’s simple enough. It was in early days. I was 
talking of the name in the abstract, and she said it was hers ; 
I daresay she never thought of the incident again ; and then 
I saw it in her prayer-book — her mother’s, no doubt. Mr. 
Reynolds, I have been a blind fool ; but I do think still that 
she ought to have told me.” 

“ Since the old man has your permission to hit hard, you 
will allow me to say, that I think you do not realize how far 
injured pride has a share in your righteous indignation ; 
but I have no wish to convince you. I would fain see my 
‘ elder daughter ’ the wife of a nobler man.” 

Ralph smiled in spite of himself. 

“ That certainly is delivered straight out from the shoul- 
der !” he said, “but do you think it is quite just? Every 
man is exacting on certain points. That was mine. But I 
am not a savage. No woman on earth should be so free 
and so honoured as my wife.” 

Mr. Reynolds rose and held out his hand. 

“ It is midnight,” he said, “ and I have no more to say. 
Go home and think about it.” 

But when Ralph left the house, it was not to go home, 
but to pace up and down the squares, in such a tumult 
of excitement and thanksgiving as he had never known 
before. 


CHAPTER LVIII. 

AT THE RECEPTION. 

Lady Munro’s “ At Home ” proved, as Lucy had pre- 
dicted, “ no end of an affair.” Sir Douglas considered it 
snobbish to entertain on a scale beyond the resources of his 
own menage ; but if the thing was to be done, he would at 
least have it done without any visible straining on the part 
of host and hostess. So the rooms at Gloucester Place were 
given over to the tender mercies of Liberty & Gunter for a 
day or two, and during that time most people found it ad- 
visable to keep out of Sir Douglas’s way. 

When Mona alighted from her cab on the expanse of 
26 


402 


MONA MACLEAN. 


crimson drugget before the door, she would not have recog- 
nised her aunt’s rooms. The half lights, the subtle Eastern 
aroma, and the picturesque figure of Nubboo had disap- 
peared, giving place to a blaze of pretty lamps, festoons of 
aesthetic drapery, profuse vegetation, and groups of magnifi- 
cent footmen. 

“ Come along, Mona ! ” Evelyn cried impatiently. “ Lucy 
has been here for half an hour. I was so afraid you would 
be too late to see the rooms before the bloom is knocked off 
them. The supper-table is simply a dream.” 

“ Bless my soul ! ” said Lucy, in an awe-struck whisper, 
as Mona threw off her cloak. “ You do look imposing ! 
Mary Stuart going to the scaffold is not in it. I don’t think 
I ever saw you in black before. If only you would show a 
little more of that swan-white neck and arms, I honestly 
believe this would be the achievement by which you would 
live in history.” 

“ The fact is,” Mona said, laughing, “ it has been borne 
in upon me lately that the youthfulness of my appearance 
nowadays is dependent on the absence from the stage of 
sweet seventeen ; so I resolved, like Sir Walter Scott, to 
strike out in a new line. I aim at dignity now. This ” — she 
glanced over her shoulder at the stately figure in the pier- 
glass — “ is my Waverley. I flatter myself that you young 
Byrons can’t compete with me here.” 

“ No, indeed ! Schoolgirl is the word,” Lucy said, rue- 
fully stepping in front of Mona to survey her own pretty 
gown in the pier-glass ; but this was so palpably untrue that 
they all laughed. 

“ I am sure you looked dignified enough in the blue vel- 
vet. I wonder you did not wear your diamonds, Mona, 
while you were at it ? ” 

“ I wanted to, but I did not dare to do it without asking 
Uncle Douglas, and he would not hear of such a thing. 
The old darling ! He sent me these white orchids to make 
up. I must go and let him see how they look, before people 
begin to arrive.” 

But Sir Douglas was only half pleased with Mona’s 
gown. 

“ It is all very well in a crowd like this, perhaps,” he 
said, “ but don’t wear that dowager plumage when we are 
by ourselves.” 


AT THE RECEPTION. 


403 


An hour later the rooms were full, and a crowd had 
gathered in the street below to listen to the music, and 
to catch an occasional glimpse of fair faces and dainty 
gowns. 

Several professional singers had been engaged, but when 
most of the people had gone down to supper, and the 
music-room was half empty, Sir Douglas begged Mona to 
sing. 

“ We want something to rest our nerves,” he said, “ after 
all that. Sing that little thing of Beethoven’s.” 

He had heard her singing it in her own room one day, 
when she did not know he was within hearing, and the 
pathetic song had been a favourite with him ever since. 

It was a fine exercise in self-control, and Mona accepted 
it. The excitement of the evening raised her somewhat 
above the level of her own personality, and she thought she 
could do justice to the pathos of the song without spoiling 
it by feeling too much. 

“ But if thy vow 
Weary thee now, 

Though I should weep for thee, 

Come not to me.” 

The door of the music-room stood open, and it was for- 
tunate for the success of her song that the last wailing notes 
had died away before she caught sight of a figure on the 
landing, reflected in the mirror opposite. 

In an instant the sympathetic pleading look went out of 
her face ; she struck a few defiant cords, and launched into 
Moore’s quaint, piquant little melody : — 

“ When Love is kind, cheerful and free, 

Love’s sure to find welcome from me. 

But when Love brings heartache and pang, 

Tears and such things, Love may go hang ! 

If Love can sigh for one alone, 

Well pleased am I to be that one ; 

But if I see Love giv’n to rove 

To two or three, — then good-bye, Love ! 

Love must, in short, keep fond and true, 

Through good report and evil too, 

Else here I swear young Love may go, 

For aught I care, to Jericho ! ” 


404 


MONA MACLEAN. 


She sang with great verve, and of course there was a 
storm of applause as she finished. 

Ralph, looking on, could scarcely believe his eyes and 
ears. Was she thinking of him? Had his love brought 
her heartache and pang ? He would fain have persuaded 
himself at that moment that it had ; but the very idea of 
such a thing seemed ridiculous as he looked at her now. 

What a chameleon she was ! Ever since his conversa- 
tion with Mr. Reynolds the night before, he had pictured 
her looking up in his face with that sweet half-childlike ex- 
pression, “ Dr. Dudley, what have I done?” and here she 
was, cold, brilliant, self-possessed, surrounded by a group of 
men of the world, and apparently very much at her ease 
with them. 

“ Why, Mona ! ” Sir Douglas said, laying his hand on 
her arm. 

It was a pretty sight to see how her face changed. 

“ Don’t be angry,” she said coaxingly, turning away 
from the others. “ We have had nothing but sentiment all 
the evening, and it proved nauseous at last.” 

“ We will discuss that another time. Come now and 
have some supper.” 

Dudley escaped into the adjoining room. He felt posi- 
tively jealous of Sir Douglas. 

“ What the deuce did I come here for?” he said, look- 
ing round the sea of unknown faces. He would not own, 
even to himself, that he had come in the hope of having a 
long talk with Mona. But just then he caught sight of 
Lucy Reynolds, and went up to speak to her. 

“ Oh, Dr. Dudley, I am so glad to see you,” she said 
eagerly. 

This was very soothing, and Ralph seated himself on a 
vacant chair beside her. 

“ I hope your father may be able to say the same when 
I meet him next. I am afraid I proved a heavy strain on 
his endurance last night.” 

“ Oh no ! I will spare your blushes, and not tell you 
what father said of you at breakfast this morning.” 

But this remark had not the desired effect of sparing 
Ralph’s blushes. 

“ Do you know many people here ? ” he asked. 

“ No, I am rather out of it.” 


AT THE RECEPTION. 


405 


“ So am I. It was quite refreshing to see a face I 
knew.” 

“ Have you seen Miss Maclean ? ” 

“ I have heard her sing. She seems to be greatly in 
requisition.” 

“Well, of course she is practically a daughter of the 
house, and Miss Munro is so young.” 

“ May I have the pleasure of taking you down to supper? ” 

“Thank you, I have promised to go with Mr. Lacy. 
Here he comes.” 

And Ralph was left alone once more. He could not 
tear himself away from the house till he had seen Mona 
again ; and while he waited, he suddenly espied his friend 
Jack Melville. 

“ How in the world do you come to be here ? ” he asked, 
surprised. 

“ If I had not been well brought up, dear boy, I should 
repeat the question. As it is, with characteristic complai- 
sance I answer it. I am here, firstly, because I cherish a 
hopeless passion for Lady Munro ; secondly, because my 
cousins were kind enough to bring me.” 

“ I did not know you knew the Munros.” 

“ My acquaintance with them is not profound. It is 
enough to see Lady Munro, and hear her speak. She is 
simply perfect ; at least I thought so until I was introduced 
to her niece. Jove ! Ralph, that is a stunning girl ! ” 

Ralph did not answer. 

“ Did you see her sing ? ” 

“ I heard her.” 

“ Ah, but you should have seen her. She changed com- 
pletely when she sang that first thing. She has a face like 
my Nydia .” 

At this moment Mona entered the room on her uncle’s 
arm. She was, as Ralph had said, very much in requisition, 
and it was almost impossible to get a chance to speak to her. 
Ralph was very pale with excitement. Convinced as he 
now was that he had inflicted a great deal of unnecessary 
suffering, possibly on her, and certainly on himself, he 
would not have found it easy to face even Miss Simpson’s 
assistant. How, then, was he to address this woman of the 
world, who sat there so thoroughly at ease in her own circle, 
so utterly regardless of him ? 


406 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Ralph watched his opportunity, however, and took his 
courage in both hands. 

“ Miss Maclean,” he said in a low voice, “ will you allow 
me to see you home ? ” 

“ Thank you very much,” she said simply, “ but I have 
promised to stay here all night.” 

Ralph bit his lip. No, certainly she had not been think- 
ing of him when she sang that song. 

He made a few commonplace remarks, to which Mona 
replied quietly, but it was maddening work trying to talk to 
her in that crowd, and he soon gave up the attempt in 
despair. To-morrow, thank heaven! he could see her 
alone. 

“Have not you had enough of this, Jack? ” he said to 
his friend. “ I vote we go home.” 

“ Done ! Let’s go and have a smoke.” 

When the two men entered Dudley’s sitting-room, Jack 
walked straight up to the Nydia on the wall. 

“ There ! ” he said triumphantly. “ Miss Maclean might 
have stood for that.” 

“ Or you might ! ” said Ralph scornfully. 

But when his friend was gone he owned to himself that 
there was a superficial resemblance to Mona in the contour 
of the face, and in the breadth of movement suggested by 
the artist. Ralph laid down his meerschaum and walked 
across the room to look at it. 

The blind girl was carrying roses — white roses — all white. 
One red rose had been among them, but it had fallen un- 
heeded to the ground, and would soon be trodden under 
foot on the tesselated pavement. Why had she dropped the 
red rose? She could ill spare that. 

And then a curious fancy came upon him, and he asked 
himself whether Mona too had dropped her red rose. She 
had seemed so cold, so self-possessed, so passionless. Did 
the red rose lie quite, quite behind her? Was it already 
withered and trampled under foot, or could he still help her 
to pick it up again ? 

“ Oh, my love, my love,” he said, “ you don’t really care 
for all those men ! You do belong to me, don’t you ? don’t 
you ? ” 

But at this point Ralph’s thoughts became incoherent, if 
indeed they had not been so before. 


A RAILWAY JOURNEY. 


407 


To-morrow, at least, thank God ! she would be out of 
the din and crowd ; to-morrow he could see her alone, and 
say whatever he would. 


CHAPTER LIX. 

A KAILWAY JOURNEY. 

Neither Ralph nor Mona slept much that night. 

Mr. Reynolds had said nothing to his “ elder daughter ” 
about his conversation with Dr. Dudley. He had sufficient 
confidence in her absolute honesty to believe that she would 
do herself more justice if she were taken unprepared ; but 
I Ralph’s manner at the Munros’ had been a revelation in 
itself, and Mona felt sure that night, for better or worse, 
some great change had taken place in his feelings towards 
her. 

“ Let me not lose my pride ! ” she cried. “ Nothing can 
alter the fact that he has treated me cruelly — cruelly.” 

She had promised to go down to Surbiton to spend a 
day or two with a fellow-student, and, unwilling as she was 
to leave London at this juncture, she determined to keep 
her promise to the letter. 

So when Ralph knocked at her door in the early after- 
noon, he was met by the news that she had gone to the 
country till Monday. She had started only a few minutes 
before, and had left no address ; but the maid had heard her 
tell the cabman to drive to Waterloo. 

Two minutes later Ralph was tearing through the streets 
in a hansom. He had wasted time enough, fool that he 
was ! Nothing should induce him now to wait another hour. 

Just outside the station he met Lucy. 

“ Mona is starting for Surbiton,” she said. “ I am hurry- 
ing to catch a train at Cannon Street.” 

“ Alone ? ” 

Lucy did not ask to whom he referred. “ Yes,” she 
said. 

“ Thank you.” He lifted his hat and turned away with- 


408 


MONA MACLEAN. 


out another word. With the reckless speed of a schoolboy 
he tore through the station, and overtook the object of his 
search as she passed inside the rail of the booking office. 

“ Two first-class tickets for Surbiton,” he said before she 
had time to speak. 

“ One third-class return for Surbiton,” said Mona, with 
a dignity that strangely belied the beating of her heart. 

“Mo hurry, sir,” said the man, stamping Mona’s ticket 
first. “ You have three minutes yet.” 

“ I have got your ticket,” Dudley said, joining Mona on 
the platform. “ You will come with me.” 

The words were spoken almost more as a command than 
as a request. 

(“ Let me not lose my pride ! ”) 

“ Thank you very much,” she said ; “ I never travel first 

/-.Iqqq ^ 

“You will to-day.” 

Her only answer was to open the door of a third-class 
carriage. 

Dudley bit his lip — then smiled. “Do you prefer a 
smoking-carriage ? ” he said. 

She laughed nervously, and, moving on to the next, en- 
tered it without a word. Ealph longed to follow her, but 
he prudently thought better of it. 

With punctilious courtesy he saw her into the carriage ; 
and then, closing the door, he lifted his hat and walked 
away. 

Mona turned very pale. 

“ I cannot help it,” she said. “ He has treated me 
cruelly, and he cannot expect me to forget it all in a mo- 
ment.” But I think it would have done Ealph’s heart 
good if he could have seen the expression of her face. 

Very slowly the train moved off, but Ealph’s lucky star 
must have been in the ascendant, for at the last moment a 
party of rough men burst open the door, and projected 
themselves into the carriage 'where Mona was sitting alone. 
They did not mean to be offensive, but they laughed and 
talked loudly, and spat on the floor, and fondled their pipes 
in a way that was not suggestive of prolonged abstinence 
from the not very fragrant weed. 

At the first station Ealph opened the door. 

“ You seem rather crowded here,” he said in a voice of 


A RAILWAY JOURNEY. 


409 


cold courtesy. “ There is more room in a carriage further 
along. Do you think it worth while to move? ” 

“ Thank you,” said Mona, and she rose and took his 
hand. 

“ Let me not lose my pride ! ” she prayed again, but she 
felt, as she had done that night long ago in the shadow of 
the frosted pines, as if the earth was slipping away from 
under her feet. 

He followed her into the carriage and closed the door. 
It was big with meaning for both of them, the sound of that 
closing door. 

Neither spoke until the train had moved off. 

“ You need not have been so afraid to grant me an in- 
terview, Miss Maclean,” he said at length. “ I only wished 
to ask your forgiveness.” 

In one great wave the blood rushed over her face, and 
she held out her hand. 

“ Oh, Dr. Dudley, forgive me ! ” she said. 

“ I want to,” he said quite simply. “ I have been far 
more to blame than you, but that is nothing. Tell me 
about it. Did our friendship mean nothing to you? — 
had I no claim upon your candour? Don’t look out of the 
window ; look me in the face.” 

“ Dr. Dudley,” she said, “ you are so quick, so clever, 
did you not see ? My cousin had asked me not to say that 
I was a medical student, and I had promised faithfully to 
do as she wished. It never entered my mind at that time 
that I might want to tell any one down there, and — and — I 
did not know till that night at the fir-wood — But I can’t 
bear to have mysteries, even from my friends, and a dozen 
times I was going to ask her permission to tell you, but 
somehow I had not the courage. One morning, in the shop, 
after your first visit to Rachel, I wanted to tell you then, 
and risk her anger afterwards ; but my heart beat so fast 
that I was ashamed to speak. Don’t you see? It was one 
of those trifles that one thinks about, and thinks about, till 
one can’t say or do them — like stopping to consider before 
jumping across an easy crevasse. And yet, let me say this 
one thing in my own defence. You can scarcely conceive 
how little opening you gave me, how absolutely you took me 
for granted.” 

An expression of infinite relief had come over his face 


410 


MONA MACLEAN. 


while she was speaking ; but now he winced and drew down 
his brows. “Don’t!” he ejaculated gloomily. Then he 
shook himself. “ I retract that 4 Don’t,’ ” he said. “ You 
shall say what you please. Your touch is a great deal 
gentler than my boundless egotism deserves.” 

“ It was not egotism,” Mona said, recovering her self- 
possession in a moment, with a pretty toss of her head. I 
will not be cheated out of the gracefullest compliment that 
ever was paid to me. I should have been dreadfully hurt if 
you had told me I was out of perspective.” 

“ Your reading is the correct one,” said Dudley gravely. 
44 You are perfectly right.” 

But his own confession was still to make, and he was 
determined not to make it by halves. 

44 In the course of our acquaintance, Miss Maclean,” he 
began somewhat stiltedly, “you have known me in the 
threefold capacity of snob, fool, and child.” 

44 In the course of our acquaintance,” Mona interrupted 
hastily, “ I have known you in the threefold capacity of 
teacher, friend, and — ” 

44 And what ? ” 

She laughed. 44 Memory fails me. I don’t know.” 

His eyes glowed like fire. 

44 Don’t you ? ” he said, with a tremor in his beautiful 
voice. 44 Come and learn ! ” 

He rose and held out his arms. 

Mona tried to laugh, but the laugh died away on her 
lips ; she looked out of the window, but the landscape swam 
before her eyes ; even the noisy racketing of the train sank 
away into the background of her perception, and she was 
conscious of nothing save the magnetism of his presence, 
and then of the passionate pressure of his arms. Her head 
fell back, and her beautiful lips— all ignorant and unde- 
fended — lay just beneath his own. 

Oh human love ! what are you ?— the fairest thing that 
God has made, or a Will-o’-the-wisp sent to brighten a brief 
space of life’s journey with delusive light ? I know not. 
This I know, that when Ralph sent a kiss vibrating through 
Mona’s being, waking up a thousand echoes that had scarce- 
ly been stirred before, the happiness of those two human 
souls was almost greater than they could bear. 


A DAY OP SUNSHINE. 


411 


CHAPTER LX. 

A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 

Mona did not go to Surbiton, after all, that day. She 
telegraphed to her friend from Claphain Junction, and then 
she and Ralph took the train to Richmond. 

“ Let me take you for a pull on the river,” he had said. 
“ I have never done anything for you in my life, and my 
arms just ache to be used in your service. Oh Mona, 
Mona, Mona ! it seems too good to be possible that you are 
still the same, simple, true-hearted girl that I knew at Cas- 
tle Maclean. By the way, do you know that Castle Maclean 
is yours for life now ? At least Carlton Lodge is, and only 
the sea-gulls are likely to dispute my princess’s claim to her 
battlements.” 

He handed her into a boat, and rowed out into the mid- 
dle of the river. 

“ Now,” he said, “ you shall see what your slave’s mus- 
cles are worth.” 

Like an arrow the little boat shot through the water in 
the sunshine, and Mona laughed with delight at the ex- 
hilaration of the swift rushing movement. 

“ That will do, Dr. Dudley,” she said at last. “ Don’t 
kill yourself.” 

“ I don’t answer to the name,” he said shortly, pulling 
harder than ever. 

“ Oh, do please stop ! ” she cried. 

“ Who is to stop ? ” he panted, determined not to give in. 

There was a moment’s pause. A deep rosy colour set- 
tled on her eager face. 

“ Ralph,” she said, scarcely above a whisper. 

The oars came to a standstill with a splash in the mid- 
dle of a stroke, and Ralph leaned forward with a low de- 
lighted laugh. Then he sighed. 

“ You had no eyes for me last night, Mona,” he 
said. 

“ Had not I?” 

“ Had you ? ” very eagerly. 

But when the language of looks and smiles begins, the 
historian does well to lay aside his pen. Are not these 


412 


MONA MACLEAN. 


things written in the memory of every man and woman 
who has lived and loved ? 

Not that there was any lack of words between them that 
day. They had such endless arrears of talk to make up ; 
and a strange medley it would have sounded to a third pair 
of ears. Now they were laughing over incidents in their 
life at Borrowness, now exchanging memories of childhood, 
and now consulting each other about puzzling cases they 
had seen in hospital. 

It was a long cloudless summer day, and for these two 
it was one of those rare days when the cup of pure earthly 
happiness brims over, and merges into something greater. 
Every simple act of life took on a fresh significance now 
that it was seen through the medium of a double personal- 
ity ; every trifling experience was full of flavour and of 
promise, like the first-fruits of an infinite harvest. 

What is so hard to kill as the illusions of young love ? 
Crushed to-day under the cynicism and the grim experi- 
ence of the ages, they raise their buoyant heads again to- 
morrow, fresher and more fragrant than ever. 

“ I am going in to see Mr. Reynolds for a few minutes,” 
Ralph said, as they walked home in the twilight. “ Do you 
know when I can see your uncle ? ” 

“ On Monday morning, I should think — not too early. 
I want to tell you about Sir Douglas. He never was my 
guardian, and two years ago I had not even seen him ; but 
his kindness to me since then has been beyond all words. 
Whatever he says — and I am afraid he will say a great deal 
— you must not quarrel with him. He won’t in the end re- 
fuse me anything I have set my heart on. You see, he 
scarcely knows you at all, and that whole Borrowness epi- 
sode is hateful to him beyond expression.” 

And indeed, when Ralph called at Gloucester Place on 
Monday, Sir Douglas forgot himself to an extent which is 
scarcely possible to a gentleman, unless he happen to be an 
Anglo-Indian. 

Ralph stated his case well and clearly, but for a long 
time Sir Douglas could scarcely believe his ears. When at 
last doubt was no longer possible, he sat for some minutes 
in absolute silence, the muscles of his face twitching omi- 
nously. 

“By Jove! sir, you have the coolness of Satan!” he 


A DAY OF SUNSHINE. 


413 


burst forth at last, in a voice of concentrated passion ; and 
every word that Ralph added to better his cause was torn 
to pieces and held up to derision with merciless cruelty. 

The moment his visitor was out of the house, Sir Douglas 
put on his hat and went in search of Mona. 

“ It is not true, is it,” he said, “ that you want to marry 
that fellow ? ” 

So Mona told the story of how the clever young doctor 
fell in love with the village shop-girl. 

“ King Oophetua and the Beggar Maid, in fact,” he 
sneered. “ If that young whipper-snapper had had the 
impertinence to tell me that he thought you were really a 
shop-girl, I should have knocked him down on my own 
doorstep. Who is Dr. Dudley ? I never heard of him be- 
fore.” 

“ I am afraid I am no authority on pedigrees,” Mona 
said, smiling. “ But I have no doubt you could get the re- 
quired information from Colonel Lawrence.” 

To the last Sir Douglas maintained that he could not 
imagine what Mona saw in the fellow ; but he came by de- 
grees to admit to himself that things might have been 
worse. If Mona was determined to practise Medicine, as 
was certainly the case, it was as well that she should have a 
man to relieve her of those parts of the work in which her 
womanhood was not an essential factor ; and it was a great 
matter to think that he could have his niece in London 
under his own eye. 

Jack Melville’s opinion was characteristic. 

“ Well played, Ralph ! ” he exclaimed. It just shows 
that one never ought to despair of a man. When you went 
down to Borrowness after your Intermediate, I could have 
sworn that the siren was going to have an easy walk 
over.” 

“ I am glad you both had sense enough to settle it so 
quickly,” Lucy said phlegmatically, when Mona told her 
the news. 

“ Do you mean to say you suspected anything ? ” 

“ Suspected ! I call that gratitude ! The first time I 
I saw Dr. Dudley at St. Kunigonde’s, he said the surgery was 
as close as a Borrowness town-council room ; and as soon as 
I mentioned him to you, I saw it all. I have been trying 
to bring you together ever since. Suspect , indeed ! I can 


414 


MONA MACLEAN. 


tell you, Mona, it was as well for my peace of mind that I 
did suspect.” * 

“ What a she-Lothario it is ! ” 

“ Don’t be alarmed,” said Lucy loftily. “ When I was 
a child I thought as a child, but — I have outgrown all such 
frivolities. I — / am to be the advanced woman, after all ! 
When you and Doris are lost in your nurseries, I shall be 
posing as a martyr, or leading a forlorn-hope ! ” 


CHAPTER LXI. 

TWO GREAT RESPONSIBILITIES. 

It was arranged that the wedding should take place as 
soon as Ralph and Mona had passed their M. B. examination 
in the October of the following year ; and during the fifteen 
months that intervened, they resolved to devote themselves 
with a whole heart to their studies, and if possible to forget 
that they were lovers. 

“ It would never do to fail at this juncture,” Mona said, 
when the first week of their engagement came to an end, 
u and I certainly shall fail if we go on living at this rate. I 
have a great mind to go to the Colquhouns’, and study at 
the Edinburgh School.” 

This arrangement was rendered needless, however, by 
Dudley’s election as house-surgeon at St. Kunigonde’s — an 
appointment which left him little time for reading, and less 
for any kind of recreation. 

So they rarely saw each other more than once a week, 
and on these occasions Mona decreed that they should meet 
simply as good friends and comrades. 

“ For you must see, Ralph,” she said, “ how easy it is to 
crowd the life and energy of seven days into that one weekly 
meeting.” 

“ Your will shall be law,” he said. “ What a spending 
we shall have some day, after all this saving ! ” 

But I doubt whether any man ever got more pleasure 
from his courtship than Ralph did. There was a very subtle 


TWO GREAT RESPONSIBILITIES. 


415 


delight about the pretty pretence that the touch of Mona’s 
hand meant no more than the touch of a friend’s ; and, in 
proportion as she gave him little, he valued that little 
much. 

So the winter passed away, and summer came round 
once more. 

Doris’s marriage was to take place in August, and a few 
weeks before the Sahib came to England to claim her she 
went to London to visit Mona, and to order her outfit. 

“ I am just choosing my own things in my few spare 
hours,” Mona said, the day after her friend’s arrival, “ so we 
can go shopping together.” 

They were sitting at afternoon tea, and Lucy had run in 
to borrow a book. 

“ You don’t mean to say,” Doris said in great surprise, 
“ that you are having a trousseau ! When one is going to 
India, of course one requires things ; but at home — it is a 
barbarous idea.” 

“ Dear Doris,” Mona said, “ what do you suppose I am 
marrying for ? ” 

“ Miss Colquhoun does not understand,” said Lucy. “ A 
i trousseau is a thing no medical practitioner can be without. 
See, there it stands in five goodly volumes on the second 
shelf — particularly valuable on the subject of epilepsy.” 

“ Lucy, do talk sense,” said Mona, laughing. 

“ I appeal to any unbiassed listener to say whether I am 
not the only person present who is talking sense. But seri- 
ously, Miss Colquhoun, I wish I had a rich and adoring 
uncle. To have a trousseau like Mona’s I would marry the 
devil!” 

She set down her cup and ran away, before either of 
them could enter a protest. 

“ Will she ever really be a doctor?” Doris asked doubt- 
fuliy. 

“ Oh yes, indeed. Your presence seems to rouse a spirit 
of mischief within her, but you have no idea how she has 
developed. She will make a much better doctor than I 
shall. She would have been on the Register now but for 
her illness ; as it is, she goes in with Ralph and me in Oc- 
tober.” 

“ Are you going to get another medal ? ” 

“ Oh no,” Mona said gravely. “ I only aim at a pass, 


416 


MONA MACLEAN. 


and I think I am pretty sure of that. There are fewer pit- 
falls than there were in the Intermediate for my mighty 
scientific mind. But we can talk of that another time. I 
want to hear about some one else now. Does your father 
really consent to your going to India ? ” 

“ Dear old Dad ! ” said Doris, smiling. “ He is coming 
with us. He has not had a long holiday for years, and 
everybody goes to India nowadays. When he comes back, I 
expect one of my aunts will keep house for him.” 

“ He will miss you sadly ; but I am very glad the Fates 
are smiling so brightly on the dear old Sahib.” 

Doris’s face flushed. “ Do you know, Mona,” she said, 
“ it is a dream of mine that I may be of some use in India. 
Knowing you so well I shall be a sort of link between the 
cause here, and the cause there ; and I may be able in a 
small way to bring the supply into relation with the demand. 
If only I were going out as a qualified practitioner ! ” 

“ Oh, Doris, Doris, don’t you see that an enthusiast who 
has no connection with the movement, and who happens to 
be the wife of the Deputy-Governor, will be able to do far 
more than an average doctor ? ” 

“ Especially when the Deputy- Governor is as much of 
an enthusiast as his wife,” Doris answered, with a very 
pretty blush. 

“ And I think it is worth living for to be able to show 
that a woman can be an enthusiast and a reformer, and at 
the same time a helpmeet for her husband.” 

Mona watched her friend rather anxiously as she said 
this, but Doris answered quite simply, “ How often I shall 
long for you to talk to ! The Sahib, as you call him, says 
that most of the women he meets out there have gone off on 
a wrong line, and want a little judicious backing before one 
can safely preach advancement to them ; but it seems to me 
that the great majority of women only need to have things 
put before them in their true light. Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ I don’t know, dear,” Mona said thoughtfully. “ I am 
afraid I never try to influence my sex. I live a frightfully 
irresponsible life. Let me give you another cup of tea ? ” 

“ No, thank you. I shall have to drink a cup with my 
aunt, if I go to pay my respects to her. In fact, I ought to 
be there now.” 

She hurried away, and Mona was left alone. She did 


TWO GREAT RESPONSIBILITIES. 


417 


not rise from her chair, and half an hour later she was 
roused from a deep reverie by a well-known knock at the 
door. 

“Come in!” she cried. “Oh Ralph, how delightful! 
Let me make you some fresh tea.” 

“ No, thank you, my queen. It was my day out, and I 
could not settle to work till I had had a glimpse of you.” 

“ I don’t need to confess that I have been doing noth- 
ing,” she said, holding out her empty hands. “ The fact is, 
I am horribly depressed.” 

“ Having a reaction ? ” 

“ I should think I was — a Prussian-blue reaction, as Lucy 
would say.” 

“ Examination fever ? ” 

“ Ear worse than that. You see, dear, it’s a great re- 
sponsibility to become a registered practitioner, and it’s a 
great responsibility to be married ; and the thought of un- 
dertaking the two responsibilities at once is simply appall- 
ing.” 

“ But we are going away for a good holiday in the first 
instance ; and even when w T e come back, brilliant as we both 
are, I don’t suppose we shall burst into busy practice all at 
once.” 

“ I am not afraid of feeling pulses and taking tempera- 
tures,” said Mona gravely, “nor even of putting your slip 
pers to the fire. The thought that appals me is, that one 
must hold one’s self up and look wise, and have an opinion 
about everything. No more glorious Bohemian irresponsi- 
bility : no more airy — ‘ Bother women’s rights ! ’ One must 
have a hand to show, and show it. Ralph, do sit down ! 
No — on the other side of the fire — and let us discuss the 
Franchise.” 

“ With all my heart. Shall we toss for sides ? ” 

“ Meinetwegen. I went once to a Women’s Suffrage con- 
wersazione, and — well, I left without signing a petition. 
But the next day I heard two young women discussing it, 
chin in air. 

“ ‘ I am interested in no cause,’ said one, ‘ that excludes 
the half of humanity.’ 

“ ‘ As long as I live,’ said the other, ‘ I prefer that men 
should open the door for me when I leave a room, or shut 
the window when I feel a draught.’ 

27 


418 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ I said nothing, but I put on my hat and set out to 
sign the petition.” 

“ And did you do it ? ” 

“ Sagely asked ! No, I did not. I reflected that I had 
a student’s inherent right to he undecided ; but that suit is 
played out now. Seriously, dear, it seems to me sometimes 
in my ignorance as if we women had gone half-way across 
a yawning chasm on a slender bridge. The farther shore, as 
we see it now, is not all that our fancy pictured it ; but it still 
seems on the whole more attractive than the one we have left 
behind. Quefaire ? We know that in life there is no go- 
ing back ; nor can we stand on the bridge forever. I could 
not even advise, if I were asked. My attitude of mind on 
the subject would be best represented by one great point of 
interrogation. Only the future can show how the woman 
question is going to turn out, and in the meantime the mak- 
ing of the future lies in our own hands. There is a situa- 
tion for you ! ” 

She had opened the subject half in jest, but now her 
face wore the expression of intense earnestness, which in 
Dudley’s eyes was one of her greatest charms. It interested 
him profoundly to watch the workings of her mind, and to 
see her opinions in the making. Perhaps it interested him 
the more because it was the only form of intimacy she 
allowed. 

“ You must bear in mind,” he said, “ that every cause 
has to go through its hobbledehoy stage. The vocal cords 
give out dissonant sounds enough, when they are in the act 
of lengthening out to make broader vibrations; but we 
would not on that account have men speak all their lives in 
the shrill treble of boyhood.” 

“ True,” said Mona, “ true,” and she smiled across at 
him. 

Presently she sighed, and clasped her hands behind her 
head. “ It must be a grand thing to lead a forlorn-hope, 
Kalph,” she said. “ It must be so easy to say, ‘ Here I 
stand,’ if one feels indeed that one cannot do otherwise. It 
would be a terrible thing for the leaders of any movement 
to lose faith in the middle of the bridge, and, if we cannot 
strengthen their hands, we are bound at least not to weaken 
them. A negative office, no doubt ; but, fortunately, here 
as everywhere, there is the duty next to hand. If we try 


AT HOME. 


419 


to make the girls over whom we have any influence stronger 
and sweeter and sounder, we cannot at least be retarding 
the cause of women.” r 

“ Scarcely,” said Ralph, with a peculiar smile. “ So, to 
return to the point we started from, we are not called upon 
to show our hand, after all.” 

Mona laughed. “ In other words, don’t let us take stock 
of our conclusions, Ralph,” she said, “ for that is intellectual 
death.” 


CHAPTER LXII. 

AT HOME. 

It was a December afternoon. The sun shone down 
from a cloudless sky on the olive woods of Bordighera, and 
Ralph lay stretched on a mossy terrace, looking up at the 
foliage overhead. It filled him with keen delight, that 
wonderful green canopy, shading here, as it did, into soft- 
est grey, glowing there into gold, or sparkling into diamonds. 
The air was soft and fragrant, and, away beyond the little 
town, he felt, though he could not see, the blue stretch of 
the Mediterranean. It seemed to him as though the stormy 
river of his life had merged into an ocean of infinite con- 
tent. For the moment, ambition and struggle were dead 
within him, and he looked neither behind nor before. 

The crackling of a dry twig made him turn round. 

“ Come along, sweetheart,” he said ; “ I have been lazily 
listening for your step for the last half-hour.” 

“ Then you began to listen far too soon,” she said, seat- 
ing herself beside him, and putting her hand in his. “ But 
I am a few minutes late. The post came in just as I was 
starting. ” 

“No letters, I hope ? ” 

“ Two for me — from Doris and Auntie Bell. I suppose 
you don’t care to read them ? ” 

He shook his head. “ Not if you will boil them down 
for me.” 

“ They had a delightful passage, and seem to be as happy 
as two human beings can be.” 


420 


MONA MACLEAN. 


“ Nay, that we know is impossible.” 

“Well, nearly as happy, let us say. Doris found my 
letter awaiting her at Bombay, — not the one that told of 
your ‘ Double First ’ ; but she was delighted to hear that we 
had all passed. She did not in the least believe that Lucy 
would.” 

“ Trust Miss Reynolds not to fail ! One would as soon 
expect her to do brilliantly.” 

Doris says I am not to forget to tell her whether Maggie’s 
soups and sauces satisfy my lord and master.” 

He laughed. “ I seem to recognise Miss Colquhoun in 
that last expression. What does Auntie Bell say? ” 

“ She would dearly like to come and visit us in London ; 
but her husband seems to be breaking up, and she has every- 
thing to superintend on the farm ; so she ‘ maun e’en pit 
her mind past it.’ You will be interested to hear that 
Matilda Cookson has carried her point. She goes up for 
her Preliminary Examination in July ; and, if she passes, 
she is to join the Edinburgh School in October.” 

“ You are a wonderful woman.” 

“ Oh, by the way, Ralph, they are having an impromptu 
dance at the hotel to-night.” 

His face clouded. “ Do you like dancing ? ” he asked. 

“ Very much indeed. Why don’t you claim me for the 
first waltz ? ” 

“ Because I can’t dance a little bit. You would lose 
every atom of respect you have for the creature, if you saw 
him being 4 led through a quadrille,’ as they call it.” 

“ W ould I ? Try me ! ” 

What a wonderful face it was, when she let it say all 
that it would ! Ralph took it very tenderly between his 
hands, and greedily drank in its love and loyalty. Then he 
turned away. How he loathed the thought of this dance ! 
There were one or two men in the house whom Mona had 
met repeatedly in London, and the thought of her dancing 
with them gave him positive torture. 

“ Come, friend ! ” he said to himself roughly. “ We are 
not going to enact the part of the jealous husband at this 
time of day ; ” but when he entered the salon that evening, 
some time after the dance had begun, and morbidly noted 
the impression made by Mona’s appearance there, he would 
gladly have given three years of his life to be able to waltz. 


AT HOME. 


421 


Of course he must look as if he enjoyed it, so he moved 
away, and spoke to an acquaintance ; but above all the 
chatter, above the noise of the music, he could hear the 
words — 

“ May I have the honour of this waltz, Mrs. Dudley? ” 

Very clearly, too, came Mona’s reply : 

“ Thank you very much, but I only waltz with my hus- 
band. May I introduce you to Miss Rogers ? ” 

A few minutes later Dudley turned to where his wife 
was sitting near the door, — his eyes dim with the expression 
a man’s face wears when he is absolutely at the mercy of a 
woman. He could not bear the publicity of the ball-room, 
and he held out his arm to her without a word. Mona took 
it in silence. He wrapped a fleecy white shawl about her, 
and they walked out into the cool, quiet starlight. 

“ You do like this better than that heat and glare and 
noise ? ” he asked eagerly. 

“ That depends on my company. I would rather be 
there with you than here alone.” 

“ Mona, is it really true, — what you said to that 
man ? ” 

“ That I only waltz with my husband ? Oh, you silly 
old boy ! Do you really think any other man has put his 
arm round me since you put yours that night in the dog- 
cart ? Did not you know that you were teaching me what 
it all meant ? ” 

He put it round her now, roughly, passionately. His 
next words were laughable, as words spoken in the intensity 
of feeling so often are. 

“ Sweetheart,” he said, “ I am so sorry I cannot dance. 
I will try to learn when we go back to town.” 

Mona laughed softly, and raised his hand to her lips. 

“ That is as you please,” she said. “ Personally I think 
your wife is getting too old for that kind of frivolity. Of 
course she is glad of any excuse for having your arm round 
her.” 

“ It is a taste that is likely to be abundantly gratified,” 
he said quietly. “ Are you cold ? Shall we go back to the 
hotel?” 

“ Yes, let us go to our own quiet sitting-room. And, 
please, be quite sure, Ralph, that I don’t care for dancing 
one bit. I used to, when I was a girl, and I did think I 


422 


MONA MACLEAN. 


should love to have a waltz with you ; but, as you say, this 
is a thousand times better.” 

They walked back to the house in silence. 

“ Oh, Mona, my very own love,” he said, throwing a 
great knot of olive wood on to the blazing fire, “ what 
muddlers those women are who obey their husbands ! ” 

Mona did not answer immediately. She seated herself 
on the white rug at his feet, and took his hands in hers. 

“ Obedience comes very easy to a woman when she 
loves,” she said at last, — “ dangerously easy. I never 
realised it before. But passion dies, they tell us, and the 
tradition of obedience lives and chafes ; and then the flood- 
gates of all the miseries are opened. Don’t ever let me 
obey you, Ralph ! ” 

“ My queen ! ” he said. “ Do you think I would blot 
out all the exquisite nuances of your tact and intuition with 
a flat, level wash of brute obedience? God help me ! I am 
not such a blind bungler as that. Don’t talk of passion 
dying, Mona. I don’t know what it is I feel for you. I 
think it is every beautiful feeling of which my soul is 
capable. It cannot die.” 

“ Ralph,” said Mona, “ man of the world, do I need to 
tell you that we must not treat our love in spendthrift fash- 
ion, like a mere boy and girl ? Love is a weed. It springs 
up in our gardens of its own accord. We trample on it ; 
but it flourishes all the more. We cut it down, mangle it, 
root it up ; but it seems to be immortal. Nothing can kill 
it. Then at last we say, ‘ You are no weed ; you are beau- 
tiful. Grow there, and my soul shall delight in you.’ But 
from that hour the plant must be left to grow at random no 
more. If it is, it will slowly and gradually droop and wither. 
We must tend it, water it, guard with the utmost care its 
exquisite bloom ; and then — ” 

“ And then ? ” 

“ And then it will attain the perfectness and the propor- 
tions that were only suggested in the weed, and it will live 
for ever and ever.” 

“ Amen ! ” said Ralph fervently. “ Mona, how is it 
you know so much? Who taught you all this about 
love?” 

She smiled. “ I had some time to think about it after 
that night at Barntoun Wood. And I think my friends 


“GLAUBST DU AN GOTT.” 423 

have very often made me their confidante. It is so easy to 
see where other people fail ! ” 


CHAPTER LXIII. 

“ GLAUBST DU AN GOTT.” 

“You escaped us last night, Mrs. Dudley,” said one of 
her acquaintances next morning. 

“ Yes. I wanted to watch the dancing ; but the salon 
gets so warm in the evening, I could not stand it. We 
went for a stroll instead.” 

“ Neither of you gives us too much of your company, 
certainly. I am anxious to hear your husband’s opinion of 
a leader in this morning’s Times.” 

“ Here he comes, then,” said Mona, as Ralph appeared 
with a rug over his arm. “ Captain Bruce wants to speak 
to you, dear. You will know where to find me by-and-by.” 

She strolled on into the woods, and ensconced herself com- 
fortably on a gnarled old trunk, to wait for her husband. 
It was not many minutes before he joined her. 

“ That’s right ! ” he said, throwing himself on the grass 
at her feet, with a long sigh of content. “ How you spoil 
one, dear, for other people’s conversation ! ” 

“ I have not had a very alarming competitor this morn- 
ing,” she said smiling. 

“No; but if he had been an archangel, it would have 
made little difference. Go on, lady mine, talk to me — talk 
to me ‘ at lairge.’ I want to hear your views about every- 
thing. Is not it delightful that we know each other so 
little?” 

Mona laughed softly and then grew very grave. 

“ I hope you will say twenty years hence, 4 How delight- 
ful it is that we know each other so well ! ” 

“ I will say it now with all my heart ! But it is very in- 
teresting to live when every little event of life, every picture 
one sees, every book one reads, has all the excitement of a 
lottery, till I hear your opinion of it.” 


424 


MONA MACLEAN. 


Mona passed her hand through his hair. “ Then I hope 
you will still say twenty years hence, 4 How delightful it is 
that we know each other so little ! ” 

“ I think there is little doubt of that. My conception of 
you is like a Gothic cathedral : one is always adding to it, 
but it is never finished. Or, shall I say of you what Kuenen 
says of Christianity? — 4 She is the most mutable of all 
things; that is her special glory.’” 

44 Varium et mutabile in fact ! It is a pretty compli- 
ment, but I seem to have heard it before.” 

44 Varium et mutabile femina ,” he repeated, gravely. 
“ A higher compliment was never paid to your sex. Varium 
et mutabile — sicut mare ! I never know whom I shall find 
when I meet you, — the high-souled philosopher, the earnest 
student, the brilliant woman of the world, the tender 
mother-soul, the frivolous girl, or the lovable child. I don’t 
know which of them charms me most. And when I want 
something more than any of those, before I have time to 
call her, there she is, — my wife, 4 strong and tender and true 
as steel.’ ” 

Mona did not answer. Her turn would come another 
time. They knew each other too well to barter compliments 
like goods and coin across a counter. 

44 1 thought you were going to talk to me,” he said, pres- 
ently. 44 Let us talk about the things that can never be put 
into words. Imagine I am Gretchen, sitting at your feet. 
Glaubst du an Gott ? ” 

Mona smiled down on the upturned face. 

44 If Gretchen asked me, I hope the Good Spirit would 
give me words. If my husband asked me — ” 

44 He does. Glaubst du an Gott ? ” 

Mona did not answer at once. She looked round at the 
silent eloquent world of olive-trees, with their grand writh- 
ing Laocoon-like stems, and their constant, ever-varying 
crown of leaves — those trees that seem to have watched the 
whole history of man, and that sum up in themselves all 
the mystery of his life, from the love of pleasure in the midst 
of pain, to the worship of sorrow in a world of beauty. 

44 Ralph,” she said, 44 when you ask me I cannot tell ; but 
I worship Him every moment of my life ! ” 

She smiled. 44 You have surprised me out of my creed, 
and you see it is not a creed at all.” 


A CASE FOR MONA. 


425 


44 Be thankful for that ! It seems to me that the in- 
tensest moment in the life of a belief is when it is just on 
the eve of crystallising into a creed. Don’t hurry it.” 

“ No, I am content to wait. When I go to church, I 
always feel inclined to reverse the words of the prayer, and 
say, 4 Granting ns in this world life everlasting, and, in the 
world to come, knowledge of Thy truth.’ ” 


CHAPTER LXIV. 

A CASE FOR MONA. 

December still, but what a change ! Without — bitter 
cold and driving rain ; within — bright fires and welcoming 
faces and a home. 

They had returned from the Continent a few hours be- 
fore, had tested Maggie’s 44 soups and sauces,” had discussed 
ways and means by the fire in Mona’s consulting-room ; and 
now Ralph had gone through the curtained door into his 
own room adjoining, to look at his letters. 

44 1 shall only be gone ten minutes,” he had said, 44 if you 
invite me back. Nobody is likely to call on a night like 
this, even in 4 blessed Bloomsbury.’ ” 

Sir Douglas had begged them to settle in Harley Street, 
but both Ralph and Mona were far too enthusiastic to fore- 
go the early days of night-work, and of practice among the 
poor. 

Ralph had scarcely finished reading his first letter when 
a patient was announced, and a moment later a young girl 
entered the room with a shrinking, uncertain step. Her 
hair was wet with the rain, and her white face expression- 
less, save for its misery. 

44 Do you wish to consult me ? ” he said. 44 Sit down. 
What can I do for you ? ” 

She looked at him for a moment, and tried to speak, but 
her full lips quivered, and she burst into hysterical tears. 

His practised eye ran over her figure half unconsciously. 

44 1 think,” he said kindly, 44 you would rather see the 


426 


MONA MACLEAN. 




doctor who shares my practice,” and he rose, and opened 
the door. 

Mona looked up smiling. 

She was sitting alone in the firelight, and his heart glowed 
within him as he contrasted her bright, strong, womanly 
face with — that other. 

“ Mona, dear,” he said quietly, “ here is a case for you” 


THE END. 







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